A Friend in Need
by Cat Jenkins
Summary: It's the worst time of Hotch's life. As J.J. says, "You're tired, you're hurt and you're grieving. Three strikes, Hotch...you're out." It's up to the team to find a way to help their leader move on...whether he wants to or not.
1. A Friend in Need

"So," Morgan leaned back in his chair and addressed the table in general. "Hotch is a single daddy now."

"Yeah. And Jack'll be raised by a single parent." Prentiss spoke the other half of an equation that they were sure their leader hadn't quite grasped himself.

For a moment the team and their significant others watched the black-suited figure standing near the door, thanking people for attending his ex-wife's funeral. It was a surreal, heartless parody of a reception line. Hotch's natural tendency to look grim and stoic served him well during his ordeal. They continued to watch his joyless performance until his sister-in-law, Jessica, jolted them from their respective reveries.

"Guys, I need your help," she began. Her eyes were red, scalded by four days of tears since notification of her sister Haley's death.

"Sure. Anything. What can we do?" J.J. was the first to respond.

"I need help with Aaron. I don't know what to do anymore." Jessica shifted her gaze among the group, unsure who would be the best to offer aid in this case.

"What's going on?" Rossi took the lead, knowing he had the longest history with Hotch and the most life experience in dealing with broken spirits.

"I don't know what to do," Jessica repeated. "Did Haley ever tell you guys how Aaron was when he'd come home from a case?"

After a moment of scanning each other's faces, which merely confirmed their lack of knowledge, there was a general shaking of heads. Jessica looked uncomfortable, as though she were betraying a confidence. She closed her eyes. When she looked at them again, the team knew she'd come to the decision to clue them in on something Hotch and Haley had probably wanted kept private.

"He doesn't eat," she began. "Haley could always tell how bad a case was by Aaron's appetite. Usually he'd miss one or two meals. Then he'd recover and be ravenous the next day." She paused to glance at Hotch before continuing. "But this is different. I don't think he's touched food in four days. He hasn't slept more than two hours a night. I've tried talking to him, but I don't think he even hears me anymore. There's no light behind the eyes. He's just sort of on autopilot."

Jessica once again looked from face to face. "Haley told me if anything ever happened to her, I was to look after her boys. I can take care of Jack, but I don't know how to handle Aaron. If he keeps going like this, he'll collapse. That's the last thing Jack needs to see right now." She wiped at her eyes with a tattered cocktail napkin. "You guys are supposed to know all about human behavior. If you can just get some food into him or get him to really sleep…" She left her plea unfinished.

Rossi stood up. Putting an arm around Jessica's shoulders, he gave her a brief hug. "Don't worry. I've got this. Can you take Jack for the night?" Jessica nodded.

"Sure. I'm staying with them for now."

"Good. We might be bringing Aaron back kind of late, so I'll need the code for the alarm, okay?"

Morgan, Prentiss, Reid, J.J. and Garcia watched Rossi lead Jessica away. He retrieved a napkin from the bar and wrote on it as she gave him the code to deactivate Hotch's alarm system. After a little more discussion, they both approached Hotch. Jessica took his place, acknowledging guests, while Rossi took his arm and led him back to the table where the team shuffled their chairs closer together to make room for one more.

Rossi seated Hotch and stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, controlling and comforting simultaneously.

"Thank you all for coming." Hotch's wooden recitation and the blank look on his face while he fastened his gaze on the tabletop told them their boss wasn't really present.

Rossi shook him slightly. "Hotch, look up." The automaton that was their leader-in-grief did so. "Look at the people at this table." Hotch's eyes shifted from one to another. "These are the people who know you best," Rossi's voice was low, but firm. "These are the people who know what happened. You don't need to explain anything. You just need to know that we were with you through it all and we're not going anywhere now."

Hotch swallowed convulsively. _A good sign_ Rossi thought. _At least it's a reaction_.

"How are you holding up really?" Morgan caught Hotch's focus and held it.

Hotch blinked a few times. He glanced around the table again and then, crossing his arms on top of it, put his head down, hiding his face and anything it might reveal.

"I don't know." His voice was muffled as he spoke into the crook of one arm. "I don't know how to do this."

Garcia's soft gasp of sympathy underlined various reactions around the table. J.J. brought her hand to her mouth and turned full eyes toward Will. Prentiss took a deep breath, tamping down her own emotions. Reid closed his eyes, wishing the whole situation away. Morgan reached a hand out and tugged gently at Hotch's sleeve.

"Do what, Hotch?"

"_This_!" He raised his head, but kept his chin down, unwilling to look anywhere other than the table's edge before him. Gathering himself to make the effort, he raised his head, but his eyes were closed, still keeping something…or maybe everything…at bay. "I solve other people's problems. I catch bad guys. I don't know how to stay here and face my own. I'm not that strong," he finished miserably.

"Come on." Rossi patted the sides of Hotch's shoulders in little 'get up' gestures. "Come on. On your feet. We're getting out of here."

"I can't," Hotch said.

"Yes, you can," Rossi rejoined. "Morgan, get some whiskey from the bar. A bottle, not a glass. More than one, if they've got it." Morgan pushed back his chair and headed toward the back of the room where the bar had been set up.

"Dave, I can't just leave. Where's Jack?"

"Jessica's looking after Jack for the rest of the night. You'll see him in the morning. Right now, you're going to do as you're told. Morgan and I are taking you away."

Morgan returned with two nearly full bottles of Irish whiskey. Rossi took the liquor and fished a set of car keys from his pocket. "Derek, get him up and bring him outside. The rest of you, see if Jessica or Jack need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Wait a minute!" Prentiss rose from her place. "Shouldn't we come, too?"

Rossi watched as Morgan pulled Hotch to his feet and managed to herd him toward the door. "I'm sorry, Emily, but this is gonna get real personal real fast. I think Hotch would appreciate having as small an audience as possible for the next few hours."

"But we can help…," Prentiss began.

"No," Rossi interrupted. "Look, we're just going to get him drunk and give him a chance to scream or cry or do whatever he needs to get back to the land of the living. He'll be more comfortable if it's just us guys."

"Should I come?" Reid sounded willing, but not enthusiastic at the prospect.

"No. I'm only taking Morgan, because I'm pretty sure I'll need someone to help me get him home and into bed when it's all over."

Morgan and Hotch had disappeared out a side door. The rest of the team were still casting skeptical looks at Rossi.

"How 'bout this?" Rossi offered, "Morgan and I will take care of getting Hotch off his feet and making sure he sleeps for more than a couple of hours, and tomorrow you guys can be in charge of getting him to eat. Deal?"

"Deal," spoke a ragged chorus.

Rossi nodded reassuringly at Jessica as he followed the path Morgan and Hotch had taken. As the others gathered up coats and purses as a prelude to their own exit, Garcia smiled brightly. "I have a great recipe for gazpacho soup that I bet Hotch would love," she said.

"Gazpacho?" Prentiss looked skeptical. "After those two get done with him, I don't think Hotch'll want anything stronger than dry toast and orange juice." The sound of Rossi's BMW peeling out of the parking lot drew her attention. "And aspirin," she added.


	2. Boys Night Out

"How're you two doing back there?" Rossi looked in the rearview mirror as he drove toward the setting sun.

"We're fine," Morgan answered, keeping a steady watch on Hotch, looking for any signs of escape or rebellion, although, truthfully, he didn't think his boss had it in him at the moment to engage in either activity. For his part, Hotch was keeping his eyes down, attention fastened on his own hands clasped in his lap. "Where're we going?" Morgan asked.

"LeesylvaniaState Park!" Rossi announced as though he were offering a wonderful surprise to an eager carload of cub scouts instead of a destination where he hoped a few hours of drunken freedom would allay some of the grief eating Hotch alive.

"Please take me home." Hotch's rumbling baritone was tired and weak. Rossi glanced in the mirror again.

"No, Aaron. I'm sorry, son." Rossi never called Hotch 'son' despite the 15 year difference in their ages. Morgan noted the paternal endearment. The gentle tone of Rossi's voice made him feel a little bit better about having kidnapped their boss from his ex-wife's wake.

"Please."

"No."

"Dave, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm _ordering_ you to take me back." Hotch managed to rally enough to try to wrest control of the evening by invoking his rank. The car didn't even slow.

"We're not at the office, Hotch. We're off the clock. You're not in charge. Try to relax."

"The last person to tell me I wasn't in charge and that things would be easier if I relaxed was Foyet." The miserable, little whimper that accompanied that revelation made Morgan reach across the seat and place a hand on Hotch's shoulder. Rossi maintained a grim silence.

"Have you talked to anyone about that?" Morgan tried, but failed to make eye contact.

"No."

"Well, maybe that's something we'll cover tonight," Rossi offered. He and Morgan exchanged looks via the rearview. "Derek, why don't you start by helping Hotch loosen his tie and take off his jacket?"

Morgan took the hint. But when confronted with the perfect Windsor knot and the impeccable cufflinks finishing off Hotch's French cuffs, he hesitated. He'd never known a better groomed man. It made it all the more disturbing when he recalled the torn, bloody, sobbing mess he'd had to put in a chest lock to pry off of Foyet's corpse just five days before. The fact that Hotch could still keep up appearances wasn't comforting. It was a supreme effort to hide the turbulence that had been building up for the last several months, ever since Foyet's initial attack, which was obviously still doing damage behind the well-kept facade.

He gently pulled the knot loose and slid the tie from around his boss's neck, folded it and placed it on the seat between them. He flicked open the top two buttons of the freshly ironed dress shirt and, taking hold of the lapels of Hotch's jacket, tried to ease the garment backwards, but needed cooperation for the maneuver.

"Hotch? Jacket?" No reply.

"Derek, how about opening one of those bottles you brought?" Rossi saw the park entrance on his right and turned in. "He can keep the jacket for now."

As the BMW bumped it's way deeper into the park, Morgan uncapped a nearly full bottle of Irish whiskey and tipped it toward his boss, holding it down so it would enter Hotch's field of vision even with his head lowered as a sign of protest for the whole situation in which they'd placed him. Hotch's only reaction was to turn his head further away. Morgan sighed and recapped the liquor.

Rossi braked to a full stop in a deserted parking lot. Dusk was falling, but the sporadic placement of tables, benches, and stone grills among the trees marked the area as one designated for picnics. He turned off the ignition and got out. By the time he found a half empty bag of plastic cups in the trunk, Morgan had managed to pull a docile, but unhelpful Hotch over to an installment that boasted not only benches, but a few weathered Adirondack chairs chained to a table leg. Morgan pulled three of the chairs into a rough circle and pushed Hotch down into one, standing a close watch in case he made a bolt for freedom. After a few minutes Morgan sadly concluded that there wasn't enough spirit in the man for him to even consider the attempt.

Rossi busied himself pouring whiskey into three of the cups. Morgan noticed two of them held barely a splash. The third was half full. _Subtle_, he thought as Rossi distributed them, setting the cup containing the largest portion on Hotch's knee and holding it steady until Hotch wrapped his fingers around it without even looking at what he was grasping.

"Have a seat, Derek," Rossi settled himself and leaned forward, assessing Hotch's downcast eyes and stoic silence. After a long pause, he sat back and looked up at the sky. "It's a beautiful night, Hotch. If Haley's spirit is watching over you, you're far more likely to feel it here than in a stuffy room filled with people you barely know."

No response.

"I know you don't want to be here, but the least you can do is toast Haley's memory on the day you laid her to rest." Hotch looked up. The fading light was still bright enough to illuminate tear tracks on gaunt cheeks.

"To Haley," Rossi said, raising his glass toward the emerging stars.

"To Haley," echoed Morgan.

"Haley," Hotch whispered, bringing the cup to his lips.

"Bottoms up, Aaron," Rossi encouraged. To his companions' relieved surprise, Hotch drank the entire cupful. After a brief interlude of coughing, he caught his breath. At a nod from Rossi, Morgan poured another few ounces of whiskey into Hotch's cup.

"Are you okay?" Rossi noticed Hotch grimace and shift his weight in the chair.

"Burns," he said.

"That's because your stomach's empty, man." Morgan took a small sip.

Hotch didn't give any indication that he'd heard. He finally raised his head. Leaning as far back in the old chair as he could, he looked straight up at the stars, oblivious to the tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" Rossi held his own barely touched cup in both hands. "Foyet maybe?" Hotch blinked a few times.

"He should have killed me." Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances. When Hotch didn't continue, Morgan spoke up.

"He wanted you alive so he could torture you, Hotch. You know that."

"No, I mean he should have killed me instead of Haley. It would have been _better_ if I were dead and she was here." The sudden vehemence with which he spoke surprised the other two.

"Jack's lucky he didn't, man." Morgan spoke softly, unsure which words would help and which would hurt.

"A boy needs his mother," insisted Hotch, still watching the sky, still unaware of his tears slow, steady progress. Morgan couldn't let that remark go unchallenged.

"No, no, no. I grew up without a father, Hotch. I love my mother with all my heart, but there are times I would have given anything for my dad to be there even if it was for just a few minutes, just to feel some connection with the man who brought me into the world. A boy needs both parents, but don't you _ever_ think Jack doesn't need you." The resulting explosion caught both Rossi and Morgan off guard.

"Don't talk to me about fathers, Morgan! I did grow up with one and there wasn't a day that went by I didn't want him dead!" Hotch wasn't stargazing anymore. In the diminished light, the angles and planes of his face looked as though they had transformed from flesh to granite. Realizing he couldn't resume an aloof, silent pose after such an outburst, he regarded the cup that had miraculously refilled itself when he wasn't looking. While the others watched, he upended it again. This time the burn made him double over for a moment.

Morgan reached toward him, but stopped when Rossi shook his head. When he'd recovered, Hotch studied his own hands and in a much lower, more controlled voice, continued.

"From the time I was seven, my father beat me every chance he got. No one ever questioned why I wound up in the hospital three or four times a year. If anyone suspected anything, they kept quiet. After all, Mr. Hotchner was the most prominent attorney in town. If you crossed him, you could bet he'd make you pay with everything you had. The risk was too much for the sake of one skinny, little kid and one battered housewife."

Morgan looked away, rubbing a hand over his brow. Rossi finally took a healthy gulp of his drink.

"So how did it end?" he asked quietly.

"I knew some day I'd be big enough and strong enough to fight back," Hotch whispered. "I just had to hang on. He beat my mother, too, and it just killed me that I couldn't protect her. And then one day when I was fourteen, he hit my little brother."

"Sean?" Rossi asked. Hotch nodded.

"Something snapped. I wasn't bigger or stronger yet, but something…just…snapped. I smashed into him with everything I had and I didn't stop. I didn't give him a chance to get up or to hit back." Hotch's breathing was as ragged as if he were fighting for his life again. Morgan splashed more alcohol into his glass and watched as he drank off the contents for the third time.

"I would have killed him if Sean and my mother hadn't pulled me off." Hotch turned his head toward Morgan. "Just like you pulled me off Foyet."

"Damn," Morgan said. "I'm sorry, Hotch."

"We didn't know, son." Rossi reached out and touched Hotch's knee. "Was that the end of it?"

"Pretty much. He'd been diagnosed with lung cancer and maybe that weakened him enough for me to do what I did, but he moved out after that and when he died a couple months later, I didn't feel anything. I still don't." Hotch put his cup down on the ground and swayed slightly in his chair. He leaned back and looked up at the sky again.

"Haley's in the stars," was what Morgan and Rossi thought he said, but they couldn't be sure. The only thing they _could_ be sure of was that the alcohol had finally done its job. After half an hour more during which they watched their friend's eyes grow glassy and finally drift shut, Rossi stood up.

"I think he's had enough."

"Wow," Morgan said.

"Wow, indeed." They gathered the cups and put them in a nearby trashcan, stowed the bottles of whiskey in the car and between the two of them managed to maneuver Hotch into the backseat.

The drive back was silent.

Rossi gave a prayer of thanks when they reached Hotch's apartment and a parking space was available directly across the street. He pulled in and cut the engine.

"I'm going in first to make sure we don't scare Jessica," Rossi said. "I'll be back out to help you with him." They both looked at the unconscious figure for a moment.

"I got him," Morgan said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, he ain't heavy, he's my…"

"Oh, don't even finish that, Morgan." Rossi crossed the street and disappeared into the canopied entry.

Morgan opened the back door of the BMW and considered what strategy would allow him to extract a limp body without doing it any damage or waking it up. He reached in, grabbed Hotch's wrist and pulled him into a fireman's lift. He backed out and straightened with a groan, trying to adjust the dead weight across his shoulders as evenly as possible. He was halfway across the street when Rossi came back out of the building.

"Need help?"

"No. I got him." Morgan kept moving forward, determined to accomplish this task on his own. "Just open doors for me."

"Jessica left a note. She took Jack to her place for the night. Said she wasn't sure about letting Jack see whatever we'd done to his daddy."

"Smart lady," grunted Morgan. "Rossi, door!"

Rossi pushed open the front door and stood back to let Morgan pass. He still managed to beat him to the apartment and had that door open, too, by the time Morgan reached it. Morgan headed for the room he knew to be Hotch's. Rossi pulled down the covers just in time for Morgan to bend over and deposit his load as gently as he could onto the mattress. He straightened, panting lightly.

"Still say he's not heavy?"

"Bite me, Rossi." Morgan took a few minutes to catch his breath. "Now what?"

Rossi shrugged. "Strip him down and tuck him in. Shoes and belt first. Leave his underwear on so he doesn't feel too vulnerable when he wakes up tomorrow and can't remember how he got here."

"You think he won't remember?" The two agents began removing their friend's clothing, draping pieces neatly over the backs of a couple of hardback chairs.

"I don't know. Whether he does or not, what was said stays between us. Got it?" Rossi lifted an eyebrow at his co-conspirator.

"Don't worry. I don't wanna tell anyone about Hotch's childhood scars." With that, they were finished. Hotch lay before them wearing black boxers and a symphony of wounds they were seeing for the first time.

Rossi gave a low whistle. "Speaking of scars…"

The room was lit by a single, small bedside lamp, but even under the kind illumination of semi-darkness, Hotch's body was a patchwork of the livid, white scars Foyet had carved into him during long, slow hours of torture and the more recent bruises acquired during the last battle when both Haley and Foyet had died.

"Holy crap," Morgan whispered. "That has _got_ to hurt."

Rossi carefully pulled a blanket up, covering the damage that made him wish he could kill Foyet all over again. Slowly. For several minutes they watched their Unit Chief's chest slowly rising and falling.

"He looks young when he's not scowling at everyone," Morgan observed. "Too young to have gone through so much already."

Rossi nodded. "Like I've said before, 'life is a hell of a thing to happen to a person.'" After a few more heartbeats, "Well, there's nothing more we can do tonight." He turned toward the bedroom door and was in the hallway before noticing Morgan hadn't followed. He poked his head back in. "You coming?"

"Uh, no. I don't think so."

"What's up with you?"

Morgan reached out and drew one of the chairs nearer the bedside. "Nothing. I'm gonna stay here. If Hotch wakes up during the night and finds Jack isn't here, he'll go bat-crap crazy."

Rossi smiled for the first time that day. "Prentiss, J.J., Garcia and probably Reid are coming by in the morning." Morgan looked up questioningly. "They're gonna make sure he gets fed tomorrow. The next step to recovery after getting him to sleep…which we did."

Morgan nodded. "Then I'll stay until the rest of the team shows up."

"Good night, Derek." Rossi turned away, but before he could leave Morgan spoke up again.

"We did the right thing, didn't we? Getting him to tell us all that?"

"I hope so. Good night."

"Good night, Rossi."

So for the next several hours, Morgan watched over his boss, and Derek watched over his friend.


	3. The Changing of the Guard

The insistent buzz of his phone jolted Morgan awake. It only took a few seconds for him to remember where he was, the previous night and how it had ended. He grabbed the phone and silenced it as he stepped into the hallway, pulling the bedroom door closed behind him. The display on the phone read "Prentiss." Morgan took a few more steps before answering, putting distance between himself and his boss, hoping that the noise hadn't already awakened Hotch.

"Hey," he said, stifling a yawn.

"Hey." Prentiss' voice returned the greeting. "How'd it go last night?"

"Okay, I guess." Morgan walked into Hotch's living room and dropped into an overstuffed plaid chair, the type only a divorced bachelor could love.

"So tell me what happened. Why are you talking so low? How's Hotch?"

"We got him drunk. He's not a very fun drunk. Then we brought him home and I think he's still asleep unless this call woke him."

"You're at Hotch's?"

"Yeah."

"Jeez. Did you guys just get in?"

"No, we got back a little after midnight. I thought it'd be a good idea to stay close, that's all." There was an extended silence while Prentiss calculated the possible implications of that statement. When she spoke, Morgan could hear the concern in her voice.

"Derek, is he gonna be alright?"

"I hope so. He just needs a little kindness in his life right now, ya know?" Another pause before he heard Prentiss take a breath and resume her clear, matter-of-fact way of addressing problems.

"Well, I'm on my way over now. J.J., Reid and Garcia are supposed to show up, too. Garcia's been cooking all night." The undercurrent of amusement he could hear made Morgan smile.

"Cookies?"

"Oh, I'm sure. Lots of other stuff, too, but don't worry; I'm bringing bread for plain toast and J.J. says Will has about 40 different cures for hangovers. Apparently you can't go anywhere in New Orleans without finding a huge selection prominently displayed. Will says it's a 'cultural thing.'" Emily's imitation of a southern drawl made Morgan's grin grow wider.

"Sounds good. I'll stay until you get here. See ya."

"Bye."

After a brief stop in the bathroom where cold water helped revive him, Morgan looked in on Hotch. He walked softly and opened the bedroom door with professional stealth. There was no reaction, so he entered and approached the bed. Other than some indistinguishable mumbling at around 4 a.m. and a soft groan as he had shifted position, Hotch had slept deeply.

He was on his right side, half-curled around a pillow. Morgan watched him long enough to be sure he was still oblivious to his surroundings. The blanket Rossi had pulled over him had slipped away, exposing his left side to the still-burning bedside lamp. Morgan leaned closer and studied the bruising. A particularly bad one darkened at least three of his ribs. Another started lower on his waist and seemed to extend over his left hip. Morgan decided against lifting the waistband of Hotch's boxers to see how far it went. But he did lift the blanket away a bit more to reveal another bad spot on the outside of the left knee. Morgan sighed and tucked the covers more closely around the still form.

As a training agent, he knew a lot about taking care of bumps and bruises. Half the time he let new recruits suffer them because he believed they would serve as learning aids far more powerfully than his own lectures on proper procedure and care in the field. But seeing so much damage to someone whose protection he had made a personal project was very disturbing.

_At least he's asleep_, Morgan consoled himself.

He turned off the lamp. Daylight was seeping in around the edges of the Venetian blinds that covered the windows. He lightly touched Hotch's shoulder, a silent benediction or prayer, and then left the room to wait for the others.

Less than 20 minutes later he answered soft tapping at the front door. Prentiss and J.J. entered with whispered greetings.

"Is he still asleep?" J.J. lifted her chin in the general direction of the bedroom.

"Yeah. So if you guys are the day shift, I'm goin' home to get some shuteye."

"You're not going to tell us any details about last night, are you." Prentiss made it more of a statement than a question.

"There's nothing to tell." Morgan was too weary to argue, but he could see both women needed more. He decided he'd better say something if only to prevent them from pestering Hotch with questions or innuendo later. He didn't think even gentle, affectionate teasing would go down well with the Unit Chief right now. "Look, he's hurting. Inside and out. The best we can do is give him a safe place to heal and let him work through things in his own time, okay?"

The ladies exchanged sympathetic looks.

"Sure." Prentiss reached into her oversized shoulder bag, pulled out a loaf of wheat bread wrapped in plastic and dropped it on the nearest kitchen counter. "I get it, Morgan. He needs some privacy at the same time he needs some intervention. You've spent time with him, so clue us in. What can we do right now, besides feeding him?"

Morgan looked back toward the closed bedroom door, visions of Hotch's damaged torso too fresh in his mind. "Do you remember how to do light heat-and-ice therapy?" J.J. looked confused, but Prentiss nodded slowly.

"Yeaaahh." She looked toward the bedroom as well. "You think he'll be comfortable with me doing that?"

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Derek, he doesn't trust women as much as he trusts men. That kind of therapy can get a little, well, _personal_."

"Mostly he needs it from the waist up. Maybe a little on his left hip and left knee." He looked back a Prentiss. "I'd do it myself, but I'm tired and I think today is a good day for Hotch to stay in bed. Once you get started, he'll feel better."

"You're right. I've handled my share of battered men."

"You have?" J.J. asked.

"I can handle one more." Prentiss continued. "Go home, Morgan. Sleep well."

"Call me if you need me," Morgan said as he slipped into his jacket and walked to the front door. Opening it revealed Garcia holding the main building door for a heavily laden Reid, balancing stacks of technicolor Tupperware to the tune of constant admonishments to 'be careful' and 'don't drop them.'

"Hi, Baby Girl, Pretty Boy. He's all yours." Morgan strode past them before they could ask anything. He chuckled as he stood on the corner, looking for a cab. No matter how much it bothered Hotch, he would recognize the respect and love behind the care that was about to descend on him like an avalanche.


	4. It Lives

"Shhhhhhh! Guys, keep it down!" Prentiss leaned out the door of Hotch's apartment into the hallway and tried to quiet a squabbling Reid and Garcia.

Garcia was attempting to impress on Reid the importance of keeping Tupperware containers level, especially when some of them were filled with soup or stew. Reid was protesting being transformed into a pack animal by someone who should know better than to bring garishly colored kitchenware to a man who would be suffering the effects of an abundance of alcohol in his system.

"He's gonna throw up when he opens the fridge!" Reid hissed, edging past Prentiss and depositing acid-bright boxes on the counter.

"It'll cheer him up!" argued Garcia. "He'll feel like he's looking at a rainbow," she sniffed, shedding her purple coat, the buttons of which she'd replaced with candy-apple red glitter-balls.

"Keep…it…DOWN!" Prentiss closed the door after them and gestured urgently toward the bedroom where Hotch was still sleeping off his night out with Rossi and Morgan.

"He's not up yet?" Garcia glanced down at her rhinestone-studded Wonder Woman watch. "How long has he been sleeping?"

"We figure about 10 hours," J.J. said. She opened her purse and pulled out a handful of tiny bottles and sachets sporting vintage drawings of woozy-looking people. "If he's in bad shape, Will says to try some of these with a glass of water, or do the 'hair of the dog' thing and give him another shot of whiskey or vodka."

Reid bent over the pile of remedies with interest and poked through them, reading ingredients. Garcia began storing her bounty of containers. Some were consigned to the freezer, some to the refrigerator, others were simply pushed to the back of the counter. While she had the refrigerator door open, Prentiss looked over the contents and shook her head.

"There's nothing I'd call healthy man-food in here. There's stuff for a kid and salad and yogurt…I bet that's mostly for Jessica."

"She said that he wasn't eating. Maybe there wasn't any point in having food on hand if he wouldn't touch it." J.J. was always the calm balance that leaned toward understanding rather than accusation.

"Nonetheless, I think we need to do some grocery shopping."

"But I brought tons of stuff I'm sure he'll like." Garcia looked a little offended.

"I know," Prentiss replied, "but he's not going to be able to, uh…, _appreciate_ anything so sophisticated today. I think we need some very plain, basic, simple nutrition to get him through to the other side. Then tomorrow I'm sure he'll be very grateful for everything you've done, Penelope."

Garcia looked only partially mollified. She pried up the cover of a hot pink container, extracted a large sugar cookie and bit into it without enthusiasm.

"I'm starting a shopping list," Prentiss said. She retrieved a pad of paper and a pen from her purse and began writing as she opened cupboards and looked through the refrigerator again. "And while we're at it…" She walked softly down the hallway, past Hotch's closed door and into the bathroom while the others watched. She returned looking a little indignant.

"You know there's not a single adult painkiller in his medicine cabinet?" She continued to add items to her list. "There's children's aspirin and some pediatric cough syrup, but nothing Hotch could use. And there's a prescription bottle for him that was filled the day Haley died, but it doesn't look as though he's taken any of it. What's up with that?"

"Doesn't surprise me," Reid said. "Hotch doesn't seek out pain, but whenever it happens to him, he doesn't do anything to alleviate it." The others looked at him, waiting for more of the insight peculiar to their misfit genius. "You never noticed that?"

"W-why, why would he do that?" Garcia looked from one to another.

"You think he's punishing himself?" Prentiss asked.

"I think he lets himself suffer."

"Why?" Garcia asked again.

"I don't think Hotch likes himself very much," Reid admitted as though he'd held this theory for quite some time. "Maybe something in his past or maybe he just expects himself to be perfect…I don't know. But watch him. He always avoids attention and if it doesn't hurt anyone else, he'll let himself suffer." Reid sighed. "Complete opposite of a narcissist. Kinda sad."

"Well, we won't let that happen today." Prentiss tore free the sheet she'd been writing on and handed it to Reid. "You'll need to go to a drugstore, a grocery and a deli. Got it?"

"On it!" Reid pocketed the list and slipped out the door, secretly glad to think he could avoid being there when Hotch woke up and realized he'd been invaded. Reid had great respect for how much Hotch hated being the center of attention and planned on keeping a low profile. He thought a hung-over Hotch might get very scary very fast, if provoked.

"Now what?" J.J. looked around an apartment that didn't need cleaning, but also didn't look very lived in. There were boxes pushed into corners from when Hotch had first had to move out of the house he had shared with Haley. Aside from a smallish, flat screen TV, there was no entertainment of the electrical variety. _This is a place for a half-life_, she decided, and wondered if Reid's theory about Hotch making things difficult for himself included denying himself pleasure as well as letting himself suffer.

Prentiss had come to the same conclusion, but looked angry rather than sympathetic. "This stops here. And it stops today. Stupid man," she muttered as she bustled around the kitchen area. "Anyone want coffee while we're waiting for Rip Van Winkle to rise?"

"Sure," J.J. said. Garcia pulled an electric blue container forward and opened it to reveal more cookies, chocolate chip this time. The three settled themselves on bar stools around the kitchen island that doubled as a dining area and from which they had an unimpeded view of Hotch's bedroom door.

Quiet conversation and Penelope's excellent talents as a baker let another two hours slip by. Just when they were beginning to wonder what was taking Reid so long, noises started coming from behind the door they'd all been watching.

"It lives," whispered Prentiss as some low groans and thuds issued from the bedroom.

Eventually the door opened and something vaguely Hotch-shaped emerged. It was rubbing its eyes and didn't notice it had an audience. It turned and began shuffling down the hall in the direction of the bathroom and Jack's room. But before it had turned away, all three ladies had a full frontal view of the scars and bruising made more awful when set against Hotch's pallor and pathetically prominent ribs and collarbones.

"Ohhhh!" Garcia gasped.

The Hotch-thing stopped in its tracks and slowly turned back. He regarded the three watchers for a moment and then closed his eyes and let his head drop. Prentiss could practically see the thought bubble form above his head reading _What fresh hell is this_…

For his part, Hotch would have given almost anything to be able to dive for cover, but he hurt from his pounding head all the way to his toes stubbed on a chair that for some unknown reason had taken up residence right next to his bed, and it was all he could do to remain upright. In true alpha-male style, he decided to brazen it out. Squaring his shoulders, he faced the ladies without apology. His customary scowl dared them to say anything about his appearance. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on Garcia's oversized, empathic heart.

She slid off her stool and tottered over to him on four-inch glittering platform sandals that made his eyes burn. "Oh, sir!" She threatened him with tears, but although her hands reached for him, they stopped short of contact as she realized how uncomfortable he was. Hotch fixed his gaze on the ceiling. While Garcia fluttered helplessly, he took a deep breath and finally looked at J.J. and Prentiss.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking after you," Prentiss said.

"Go home. All of you."

"No."

"Watch yourself, agents." Giving orders hadn't worked on Rossi and Morgan, but Hotch hoped it might on the female half of the team. He was wrong.

"It doesn't work that way, Hotch." J.J.'s voice was always soothing to him. He had to keep his guard up if he wanted them to obey him.

"What 'doesn't work that way,' agent Jarreau?"

"Friendship," she replied simply. The answer completely deflated Hotch.

"I can't do this right now," he said miserably, nausea and pain reasserting themselves. Prentiss walked past him to the bathroom. She had noticed a worn, dark green robe hanging on a peg. She brought it back to him and helped him slip it on.

"Go to the bathroom and then come back here," she said, giving him a gentle push.

Hotch took two steps before his sluggish mind recalled something else, something new in his daily life. "Jack?" He looked down the hall toward a half open door.

"He's with Jessica," Garcia said. She had found the note from the previous night while finding places to store her culinary offerings.

Hotch nodded and winced as the motion contributed to his headache. He continued on his way. While they listened to the sounds of water running and a toilet flushing, Prentiss made toast and J.J. added water to the sachet of hangover powders Will had told her was the strongest.

Hotch returned, looking defeated. They sat him down and watched as he forced himself to down one piece of dry toast and the cloudy glass of medicine J.J. set before him. When he seemed to be done, Prentiss leaned close to his ear and spoke evenly and firmly, reasoning that if she sounded as though she expected him to obey, it would increase the chances that he did.

"Here's what's going to happen now, Hotch. You're going to go take a shower. A hot one. As hot as you can stand it. Then you're going back to bed and you're going to let us help you. Can you do that?"

A shower sounded good. Hotch nodded, stood and made a shaky way back to the bathroom. They heard the shower come on just as Reid walked back through the front door, carrying bags from several different establishments.

"Took you long enough," J.J. said, looking through some of the bags he deposited on the counter.

Reid listened for a moment. Nodding toward the shower noises he asked "He's up then?"

"Yeah."

With a satisfied smile, Dr. Reid poured himself some coffee and helped himself to a handful of cookies. "Well, then I took just long enough."


	5. Feminine Wiles

"Did he eat?" Reid asked, nursing a cup of coffee and listening to the sounds of the running shower.

"Just toast," J.J. said.

"Did he see what Garcia brought him?" Reid let his relief at having avoided Hotch's first appearance of the day wash over him and translated the good feeling into teasing Garcia, usually a fun hobby. But the others were still recovering from the sight of Hotch's battered body and didn't quite pick up on Reid's mood.

To Reid's horror, Garcia's face crumpled and a large tear traced it's way down her cheek.

"I'm sorry!" Reid watched as J.J. wrapped Garcia in a comforting hug.

"It's not you, genius," Emily said.

Garcia sniffed herself under control and wiped at her eyes. "He's such a _nice_ man and it's wrong that this happened to him!"

"I know, I know," J.J. continued to offer solace.

"Hotch?" Reid looked toward the bathroom.

"Of course 'Hotch.'" Prentiss followed Reid's gaze. "We saw what Foyet did to him," she explained. "It's pretty nasty. I don't know if it's possible to come back from something like that." She listened to the water turn off and compressed her lips into a thin line. "Excuse me." She walked down the hall and threw open the bathroom door.

"Emily!" J.J. sounded shocked. So did Garcia and Reid with similar exclamations of "What are you doing!?" and "Whoa!", but Hotch's roared "Prentiss!" overrode them all.

"I said a HOT shower, mister! Get back in there. And when you come out I better see steam rolling out of this door, got it?" There was a mumbled reply and Prentiss pulled the door shut. The others watched dumbstruck as she disappeared into Hotch's bedroom. There were sounds of rummaging, of drawers being opened and closed. When she reappeared, she headed toward the bathroom again, a pair of dark grey sweatpants draped over one arm.

Without any preamble, she opened the door and tossed the pants in. "Put these on when you're done."

As Prentiss rejoined them, Garcia still looked dismayed, but J.J. and Reid exchanged conspiratorial smiles: the second time Emily had opened the bathroom door, steam had billowed out.

"Emily, you have more courage than I do." J.J.'s mirth was barely under control.

"Morgan said his left hip was hurt. I wanted to see."

"Was it?"

"Yeah. But the ribs look worse."

"So what's the plan?" Reid asked.

Prentiss sighed. "Light heat-and-ice therapy. Morgan's idea."

Reid looked thoughtful and then nodded his approval. "Good idea. Probably the best thing for him right now."

"What exactly _is_ that?" J.J. asked for both herself and a puzzled-looking Garcia.

"It's the least aggressive form of massage you can perform. It combines body heat for sore muscles with icing for edema and it allows for the healing properties of human touch." Reid was at his best when he could explain and define. He was never condescending or patronizing. He appreciated other's curiosity and enjoyed being the resource that could provide satisfaction. Dispensing information was frequently a handy tool to shield himself from unpleasant situations, too. Hotch's suffering disturbed him, but he knew he wasn't the right person to step in and try to lessen it. Not physically, anyway. Offering facts was the best he could do under the circumstances.

"There are studies where alpha waves have been measured during touch therapy," he continued. "There was a measurable, quantifiable rise in thermal auras in the hands of the practitioners conducting the procedure. It's fascinating."

"I'd like to watch, if that's okay." J.J. turned toward Prentiss for permission.

"Give me a chance to get him settled first." She wasn't sure if she wanted observers. "After about twenty minutes you can come in, but be very, very quiet."

Moments later Hotch emerged from the bathroom accompanied by a cloud of steam and wearing the pants Prentiss had brought him along with his threadbare robe. He still looked ashen and shaky, but when he faced the others his voice sounded stronger.

"That was totally unnecessary, Prentiss." He tried to project his customary glare, but it was only a faded facsimile.

"Everything I do has a reason, sir." Prentiss rose, strode up to Hotch, took his arm and steered him into the bedroom. At the threshold, she threw an apprehensive glance back at the others and mouthed _Wish me luck_.

The door closed with a quiet, decisive _snick_.

Once inside, despite swaying like a newborn colt, Hotch drew himself up to his full height and faced Prentiss as she set the chair he had stumbled over back on its feet.

"What are you doing?" he rumbled.

"Take off the robe and lie on your back."

Hotch blinked at her, but didn't move.

Prentiss sighed with exasperation. "How _did_ they deal with you last night?"

"They manhandled me, if you really want to know." A moment of silence, a standoff. "You can't do that." Hotch watched Prentiss' eyes narrow and suddenly wasn't at all sure she wouldn't try.

"Okay, buddy, you asked for it." Prentiss whipped her phone out of a back pocket and flipped it open. "No, Hotch, I can't manhandle you. But Morgan said to call him if I needed him. He's exhausted from having spent the night here, but I'm sure he can be back in a few minutes. He's probably not even all the way home yet….," she bluffed.

"Wait…what? Morgan stayed here last night? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know…" Prentiss' hand hovered over the keyboard, pretending to enter code. "Maybe in case you had a bad dream. Or maybe in case you woke up scared. Or sick. Or just alone." Hotch bit his lip and suddenly didn't look very formidable. "But I'm sure he'll be glad to come right back." She faked pushing a few more buttons and then held the phone to her ear. "Hey, Morgan. I hate to ask, but Hotch won't…"

"No." Hotch looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. Don't make him come back."

"Never mind, Morgan." Prentiss watched Hotch reluctantly remove his robe and sit on the edge of the bed. "Sure, Derek. I'll let you know how it goes later. Get some rest." She hid a triumphant smile and returned the phone to her pocket.

Hotch mumbled something.

"What's that?"

He still didn't look up. "I said girls don't play fair."

"No, we don't. Now lie down."

Hotch did so. "Girls fight dirty."

"Yes, we do." Prentiss' voice was soft and soothing. She lowered herself into the bedside chair and scooted it as close as she could. "We use threats and guilt and mean-spirited teasing and shame and rumors and lies." Hotch looked directly at her and sighed.

"I can't fight like that. I don't know how."

"That's because you're not a girl." Prentiss felt her own twinge of guilt, but told herself that the ends justified the means. "Now, close your eyes and concentrate on breathing." Hotch complied, but the nervous gulp and the last sad look he gave her told her his heart wasn't in it.

She watched him for the space of a few breaths. "Breathe deeper. From here." She placed her hand on his bare stomach and his whole body jumped as the muscles tensed. Prentiss jerked her hand back. "Did that hurt?!"

"No. You just surprised me."

She reached across him, intending to brace herself by planting one hand firmly on the bed next to his left side, but she miscalculated and her hand brushed against the ghastly bruising over his ribs. He yelped.

"Oh, God, Hotch! I'm sorry!"

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." It sounded more like a mantra meant to conceal rather than a truthful assessment.

"No, you're not. Were you x-rayed after…after you saved Jack?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay." His breathing was too rapid and harsh. Prentiss realized she'd lost any benefits that the hot shower might have provided when it came to relaxing a sore body. She tucked her hair behind her ears and scanned the length of his rigid body. She took a steadying breath and calmed herself.

"Let's start over. I'll tell you what I'm going to do so there'll be no surprises. Slow your breathing down." Gradually, it happened. "Now I'm going to put my hand on your stomach and I want you to try to breathe deeply enough to make it move." After a few attempts…success.

Prentiss found herself mirroring Hotch's rhythm. It was working. She lowered her voice to a hypnotic, gentle drone. "Breathe slowly. Deeply. Let go of any tension in your neck…your chest…let your shoulders go…breathe into the pain…" She continued to lead him through his own body, releasing the muscles group by group. After a while she felt a subtle shift under her fingers. He was asleep. And her hands actually did feel as though they were generating warmth. She slowly placed them both on Hotch's right shoulder, monitoring his breathing to be sure it continued at an even, steady pace.

She was concentrating so fiercely, she didn't realize J.J. had entered the room until she heard her whisper.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes."

"What happens now?"

"I let the warmth from my hands penetrate his muscles. Here. Feel." Prentiss raised one hand and touched J.J.'s cheek.

"You're _really _warm!"

Prentiss resumed moving both hands over Hotch's torso in small, slow increments. "It gets so you can feel different…textures…I guess." She gently worked her way down one side of his chest. "You find places where the muscle is stiff, so you apply pressure…not much, though. You find other places that you just know are swelling. They get iced."

After an hour, Prentiss removed her hands and shook her arms out from the elbows. J.J. noticed she was trembling. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, it's just I haven't done this in a while. It takes a lot more out of you than you'd think." They watched Hotch sleep. "J.J. could you make some ice packs? Three?"

"Sure." J.J. rose and headed toward the door.

"Oh, and wrap them in towels if you can."

"No problem."

When J.J. returned, Prentiss wedged ice packs against Hotch's damaged ribs and hip. Without really having seen his knee, she opted to wrap the entire joint in ice. Mission accomplished, the two agents exited quietly.

Reid had been rummaging through some of Hotch's still-packed boxes and had discovered one filled with books. He was browsing happily. Garcia had her ubiquitous laptop out and was equally engrossed in her favorite pastime.

Prentiss looked at her watch. "We'll need to remove the ice packs in about fifteen minutes…twenty, tops. Otherwise they stiffen things up and slow circulation…"

"…which is necessary for wounds to heal," Reid finished, looking up with a smile. "Hotch has some cool books. Did you know he reads French?"

"Yeah…I mean, no, I didn't." Prentiss sounded distracted as she looked back at the room where Hotch slept. "Garcia?"

"Hmmmm? What?" The tech expert pushed lemon yellow glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose.

"Can you get into Hotch's medical records?"

"What? Why?"

"I just wanna be sure he got looked at after that fight with Foyet. Can you do that?"

"Not from here. I'll need the Bureau computers, but I think Kevin's working today. I could ask him."

"That'd be great. Thanks." Prentiss poured herself yet another cup of coffee and stared toward the bedroom as she sipped it.

_You're keeping too many secrets, Aaron Hotchner_, she thought, sighing in sympathy. She had a lot of secrets of her own. _And you think you're all alone. It's time you learned to share._


	6. Pack Mentality

Garcia was pecking away at her laptop with phenomenal speed, simultaneously engaging her on-again-off-again boyfriend, Kevin, in a spirited discussion. Prentiss smiled when she realized that Garcia talked the same way she typed. Both sounded staccato and forceful; propelled by lots of emotion. Prentiss looked around the room and was reminded of lazy, companionable, family afternoons. She hadn't had many, but when she was little, there had been a few.

Reid was slouched in Hotch's overstuffed easy chair, fingers scrolling down page after page of an ancient-looking text book. Occasionally, he would dip into a bag of what seemed to be candy corn nestled in his jacket pocket. _It's July_, Prentiss thought. _Where the hell did he find something available only around Halloween? How old is that stuff anyway?_

J.J. was talking softly on her phone, standing at the far end of the living room where she could look out a window. _The only thing preventing this from being a really lovely afternoon is Hotch,_ thought Prentiss, looking at the closed bedroom door. She was worried. Hotch responded best to a very specific blend of disciplined familiarity that was difficult to balance. She wondered if she'd overstepped her bounds already and if the consequences of having done so would enrage him, or, worse, send him into hiding.

J.J. closed her phone and wandered back to where Prentiss perched atop one of the kitchen bar stools, keeping a vigil on the bedroom door. "Do you think he'll wake up soon?"

Prentiss shrugged. "Dunno. He was pretty wasted and if Reid's right and he avoids painkillers, that hangover powder might keep him down even longer."

"What do we do when he wakes up?"

"Feed him." Prentiss stood up and entered the kitchen proper. She had planned on broiled steak and a baked potato as Hotch's first real meal after nearly five days of grief-induced fasting. She thought having the food ready to slip into the oven as soon as Hotch stirred would be prudent. "Was that Will on the phone?"

"Uh...no, actually." J.J. took Prentiss' place on the bar stool. "It was Rossi."

"Oh, yeah? Checking up?"

"Sort of. Says he'll be by later with Jack. Just wanted to make sure Hotch was okay." After a pause. "He's _not_ okay, though, is he…" Prentiss recognized that J.J. wasn't really asking; she was voicing a concern they all had.

"Well…not yet." She washed three oversized russet potatoes and began spearing each repeatedly with a fork; piercing the skin would hasten the baking process. "Did Rossi say anything else? Like what they talked about while Hotch was drunk?"

"Nope. Not a word." J.J. glanced at her watch. "He's been out for three hours. I'm just gonna check on him." She crossed the room and turned the door knob, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Prentiss watched J.J. disappear into the darkened room. As soon as the door closed Garcia bustled up, laptop braced against one hip as she brushed aside cookie crumbs and Will's pharmacy of headache powders to make space for her treasured computer.

Prentiss wrapped each potato in foil. "Anything?"

"You were right to be suspicious!" Garcia chortled gleefully, peering at a newly blossoming screen. Garcia's chief joy in life was ferreting out obscure information which eluded the bulk of computer-literate humanity. "When they took Hotch to the hospital, x-rays were _ordered_, but there's no record they were ever _done_. He must have sneaked out while no one was looking."

"I _knew_ it!" Prentiss felt vindicated and a little better about having bullied and manipulated Hotch earlier. "Good work. Thanks, Garcia."

J.J. stepped inside and closed the door quietly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the murky light leaking through closed Venetian blinds. The figure on the bed was curled on its side. As she drew closer, it raised its head and regarded her with soulful eyes. She pushed the chair aside and sat on the edge of the bed itself.

"I thought you might be awake and just didn't want to come out."

Hotch laid his head back on the pillow, still looking at J.J. He considered her to be as empathic as Garcia, but where Garcia exhibited raw emotion, J.J. exuded serenity. Right now he craved her nonjudgmental presence and had been hoping she'd check on him.

"J.J.?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Am I a complete asshole?"

She ducked her head and chuckled before looking back at him. "No more so than anyone else."

He swallowed and she thought his eyes were glistening a little too wetly. Her smile vanished and she placed her hand over the top of his, squeezing gently.

"I just don't like it when people fuss over me."

"We know that."

"Then why is everyone doing it?"

"Because you're tired, you're hurt, and you're grieving." She caressed the sharp bone on the side of his wrist when he didn't respond. "That's three strikes, Hotch. You're out. You have to let us carry you for a while."

"I'm sorry."

That simple statement tugged at J.J.'s heart more than she cared to admit.

"You haven't done anything to be sorry for." Silence, but she hadn't really expected him to accept blamelessness. Rossi had told them several times that Hotch's natural inclination was to believe that if he _could_ have prevented something terrible from happening, then he _should_ have. It didn't matter if he was thousands of miles away or already immersed in a different, equally dire situation. It was his fault. He took the blame. "Do you trust us?"

"Yes."

"Then let us help you." He swallowed again. "Hotch, I promise that tomorrow you'll be a tiny bit better and each day after that. And those people out there…" J.J. nodded toward the door, "…they _want_ to be here." He didn't look convinced, but when he returned the slight pressure of her hand, she took it as a hopeful sign. She stood up just as his stomach gave a mighty growl. "You know Emily's cooking for you?"

"Oh, God." Supremely non-domestic Prentiss being forced into a traditional, housewifely role on his account embarrassed him tremendously and almost took his appetite away again. Almost. He stirred and J.J. placed a supportive hand on his back, helping him to a sitting position. She patted him and walked to the door.

"And Hotch?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't get dressed. I think today's plan is for you to split your time between eating and sleeping."

Everyone looked up when J.J. closed the bedroom door behind her.

"He'll be out in a few minutes." She watched Prentiss turn on the oven and pull a package of steaks from the refrigerator.

"Garcia, you wanna make some space so we can set a place for him?" Prentiss nodded at the counter. She spoke to J.J. as she continued working. "You know he ran away from the hospital before he got checked out?"

"I think we should look the other way on a lot of things he did that day."

"Well, I'm going to make sure he gets to a doctor tomorrow." Prentiss underlined her opinion of Hotch's self-neglect by banging pots and pans as she searched for a suitable one on which to grill meat.

Reid looked up from his book. "Can I have a steak, too?" Prentiss stared. "I'm hungry." Her gaze was steady. "And it would make Hotch less self-conscious if he wasn't the only one eating." With a deep sigh, Prentiss placed a second steak on the pan she'd selected and slipped it under the broiler.

When Hotch finally joined them, despite being told not to dress, he had exchanged his robe for a t-shirt and had put on socks.

"Sit here," J.J. indicated a stool placed before one of two dinner settings laid out on the counter. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence during which Hotch felt all eyes in the room assessing him.

"Thanks, guys," he mumbled. "For everything."

"You're welcome." J.J. took it upon herself to respond on everyone's behalf.

Prentiss continued to putter about the kitchen, putting finishing touches on the simple menu. When she slid two plates bearing sizzling slabs of meat and steaming potatoes wrapped in foil in front of Hotch, Reid took a seat beside him.

"I'm starving," Reid said, pulling one of the plates closer. "This looks great, Prentiss."

The three ladies watched as Hotch addressed his plate with less enthusiasm.

"Eat slowly," Prentiss advised. "It's been a few days, Hotch, so take your time."

Reid applied himself vigorously to the meal, but after a few bites, Hotch paused. He looked up to see three sets of eyes watching his every move. J.J. was the first to react to his distressed look.

"I think it's about time to go." She shot a meaningful look at Garcia.

"Uh, oh yeah, sure, me too." The laptop was stowed and the purple coat was donned, but, on the point of leaving, Garcia stopped and turned a tragic face toward Hotch. "I'm sorry, sir. I just can't leave without….well…I know it's inappropriate, but…" She minced her way over, glittering sandals flashing, placed both arms around Hotch's neck and, squeezing him close, planted a loud, emphatic kiss on his cheek, leaving behind a large, lavender print. While Hotch froze, wide-eyed, Garcia exclaimed over the mess she'd made and scrubbed at the glossy mark with her sleeve. When it had been minimized, she picked up her belongings and made a hasty exit.

"…Bye, Garcia." Hotch's voice was faint as he stared after her.

J.J. gathered her own purse and coat, and looked at the still-stunned Unit Chief. "What the hell," she murmured, going to his side and placing a much more gentle kiss on the same cheek, but leaving no mark behind, much to Hotch's relief. "I promise things will get better," she whispered. "Bye, Spence." She nodded to Reid and gestured to Prentiss, mouthing _Call me_. Then she followed in Garcia's perfumed wake.

Hotch wiped his cheek and resumed eating, a wary look in his eye. Prentiss began cleaning up, running water in the sink and rinsing some of the utensils she'd used during preparation. After a few minutes she spoke.

"Hotch, do you ever watch nature documentaries?"

He blinked at her, a little slow to change gears. "Sometimes. Jack likes things about bears…and horses, too."

Prentiss nodded and kept tidying. "There's one called "The Company of Wolves" that you might like." Now Reid looked up as well, both men wondering where this was going. "It's about a team of naturalists who decide to follow a wolf pack in northern Minnesota." Prentiss opened the dishwasher and began to load it. "At one point they catch the alpha-wolf and take him away for medical tests and to tag him so they can track him later." Reid resumed eating. Hotch didn't.

"When they return him to the pack, he's groggy and stumbles his way back. Once the other wolves see him, they gather around. He stands still while every single member of the pack takes a turn at sniffing him and nuzzling him." Hotch kept watching her.

"They think the pack needed to do that to make sure it really was their leader, to reassure themselves that he was alright, and to let _him_ know that he'd been missed and they were glad to have him back; to show him how important he was to them." Prentiss closed the dishwasher door.

"Uh, that's interesting, Prentiss." Hotch studied her until he was sure the story was finished. He went back to working on his dinner.

"And Hotch?" He set his fork down and looked at her again, a portrait of uncertainty. "I know you didn't get yourself x-rayed the other day." Hotch was silent, recalling how Prentiss had affirmed his belief that girls didn't play fair. "I'm taking you to the hospital tomorrow. You're going to be checked out from head to toe."

Reid looked up from his plate. "I'll take him," he offered brightly.

"You will? You're sure?"

"Yeah. It's no trouble. Think of it as a 'thank you' for dinner."

Prentiss nodded, wiped the counters down and then picked up her own purse and jacket, preparatory to leaving. Before she did, she confronted Reid one more time.

"You'll make sure he sees a doctor?"

"Absolutely. You have my word."

"'Alright. Thanks." She walked to the door, opened it and looked back at her boss, obediently struggling to eat.

"And Hotch?" He looked up. "Consider yourself nuzzled."


	7. The Doctor Is In

Between bites, Hotch cast sidelong looks at Reid. The young doctor was demolishing the dinner Prentiss had provided, while Hotch was having difficulty continuing past the half-way point.

"You want that last potato?" Reid was well aware of Hotch's scrutiny and the reason for it, but chose to play him for a while. He liked his boss immensely, but he rarely felt he could tease him. Here, away from the workplace and with no other audience, he gave himself permission to enjoy the situation for a few minutes.

"No, you go ahead." Hotch pushed his half-eaten plate away, unable to finish.

Reid leaned over the counter. Extending a long arm, he snagged the third foil-wrapped potato Prentiss had left on the stovetop. She had made an extra, reasoning that, if meat was too heavy, Hotch might more easily digest a bland, starchy carb. Reid tore into the foil and began slitting the potato open. He looked at Hotch and the remains of his dinner.

"You should cover that and put it in the fridge." Hotch kept watching him. "While you're awake, you should try to eat a little more every couple of hours." Reid responded to Hotch's wary look by beaming him a big, smug grin.

"I'm not going to any hospital, Reid." Hotch braced himself, expecting a battle.

"Of course you're not." Reid's expression didn't alter.

Hotch drew back, considering Reid through narrowed eyes. On a day when everyone seemed to be manipulating him into doing things he'd rather not, he wondered what new tactic this was. Reid was a genius. It might be a trap.

Reid let the Unit Chief stew for a few minutes while he added a large dollop of butter to the potato and mashed it in.

"You told Prentiss you'd make me go to the hospital," Hotch accused. "You _promised_. You don't break promises."

Reid took a big bite, chewed, swallowed and wiped his hands on his thighs before beaming another grin at his disgruntled boss. "I said I'd make sure you saw a doctor…_I'm_ a doctor."

Hotch blinked, slowly realizing that he might have found an ally. His brow cleared. He returned Reid's open gaze and for the first time in days the outer corners of his mouth twitched upward slightly. Reid looked at Hotch's midriff and tilted his head to one side.

"Stand up." Hotch did, eager to cooperate if it would help him avoid being scantily clad in a brightly lit room with strangers poking at him. Reid lifted the hem of Hotch's t-shirt and bent to take a closer look at the black-and-purple flesh.

"Hmmmm." Hotch had always hated it when doctors made that sound. It was so uninformative, so _judgmental_. Reid let the shirt drop back into place and stood up. He stepped back and crossed his arms.

"Take off the shirt." Hotch did. Reid wasn't smiling anymore. He noticed the catch in Hotch's breath as he stretched upward while removing the garment. Reid had missed seeing Hotch emerge shirtless from his bedroom that morning. This was his first full view of Foyet's sadistic handiwork. He had to look away for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Hotch."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry we weren't there to protect you."

"Not your job." Hotch looked away, crumpling the t-shirt and then tossing it on the counter.

"Don't tell Morgan that." Reid managed to recover his grin. "It's one of his life-missions."

Hotch remained silent, but there was a considering look in his eyes. For the first time he was being forced to confront the fact that there were people who valued him more than he valued himself. It wasn't a comfortable revelation. He would need time to examine it when things quieted down and he could be alone.

Reid took a deep breath and stepped closer. As lightly as he could, he placed a hand over the bruise, his long fingers able to wrap all the way around one side of Hotch's rib cage.

"Take a deep breath, but stop when it starts to hurt…and don't tell me it doesn't hurt. I may not be a medical doctor, but I know enough to tell when someone's in pain."

Hotch slowly inhaled and stopped just as the area under Reid's hand began to expand. "There," he gasped.

"You can exhale." Reid removed his hand.

"I don't understand," Hotch said, anxious to erase the serious look Reid had acquired. "Prentiss had me doing deep breathing and it didn't hurt much. It was just an ache. I even fell asleep."

"Hmmmmm." There was that unhelpful sound again. "Turn around."

Hotch obeyed. Reid's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh. Okay. I see what's going on here."

"What?"

"This is gonna hurt for a minute, but bear with me…" Before Hotch could protest, Reid gripped his left shoulder, holding him steady. Hotch felt searing pain as Reid's other hand dug deeply into the back of his ribs. It was so sudden and surprising that he couldn't speak or breathe. Before he had time to register the depth of this new agony, a wave of relief washed over him. In its own way, it was even more powerful than the pain. Hotch's knees started to buckle, but Reid was ready. He released Hotch's shoulder and wrapped his arm around his chest instead, pulling Hotch's weight against himself and allowing the fingers pressed into Hotch's back to dig even deeper.

And suddenly Hotch could breathe again.

"My God…what…what…was that?" He panted, but didn't try to break free.

"_That_ is what happens when your body takes desperate measures to protect itself," Reid said through gritted teeth. He held Hotch for another few minutes, letting the man remember how it felt before pain became part of his daily existence.

"Hotch, I can't hold this. I'm going to have to let you go. The pain'll come back right away, but I know what's wrong now." Reid was breathing a little heavily himself. The pressure he had to exert was difficult to maintain. "Ready?"

"Okay."

Reid let go. The pain returned. Hotch felt an accompanying wave of nausea and hoped he didn't lose the meal Prentiss had worked so hard to give him. He hadn't realized how bad, how all-pervading the pain was until it had been absent for a few blessed moments. Reid supported him until he was sure Hotch could stand on his own, then helped him onto one of the bar stools. Reid took a seat on the other. Both were breathing heavily.

"What was that?" Hotch noticed he couldn't help leaning slightly to the left. He hadn't realized that before.

"I don't think your ribs are broken. But I'm pretty sure they're cracked. There might be cartilage damage, too."

"So?"

"So when something like that happens and is left untreated, your own body tries to provide whatever support is necessary."

Hotch looked puzzled.

"There's a very visible ridge running down the left side of your back, Hotch. Your muscles are trying to protect the injury. They're locked into position so hard that there's minimal circulation. You felt how much force it took to make them release and how they snapped right back into place once I let go. It's your body's way of splinting the injury."

"What do I do?"

"You're sure you won't go to a real doctor?"

"Can I take care of it myself?" Reid was pleased that Hotch hadn't immediately vetoed medical treatment. But if he could spare him a hospital visit, he would.

"We can try a few things, but, Hotch, if I don't think they're working, then I _will_ take you in, understand?"

Hotch nodded. The memory of relief was making him reconsider his decision to deny the need for help and struggle along on his own.

"Alright, then. We'll ice the front once more before you go to bed. At the same time, I'll put some heat on the locked muscles. And before I leave I'll tape you up. That might be the best thing; if there's some other support, your muscles might ease up gradually."

"Might?"

"Sometimes, if it's been going on too long, there's a type of 'muscle-memory' that kicks in. Even when the injury is healed, they won't let go." Reid shook his head. "That can go on for months…years even. But this is from your fight with Foyet, so it's only been a few days. You should be okay."

Hotch kept silent and wouldn't meet Reid's eyes.

"Hotch? Hotch, this _is_ from your fight with Foyet, isn't it? Hotch?"

"Sort of," came the mumbled response.

Reid leaned forward. "Hotch, if you won't go to a hospital, I'm the best person you could find to help you through this, but I have to know everything about how it happened. Otherwise, we're just wasting our time."

"It was Foyet, but it wasn't a few days ago." Hotch's reply was low and quiet. "I really don't like to talk about it."

"So you'd rather keep it secret and suffer for the next few years?" Unaccustomed anger started to edge it's way into Reid's voice. "Would you like me to tell _you_ a secret? We were talking about you while you were asleep. I clued everyone in about how you don't help yourself when you're in pain."

Hotch looked mortified.

"So if you want to keep quiet and punish yourself a little more, you won't be doing it secretly. We know. Got it?" Reid gave him a few minutes to consider his position. "So this happened months ago?…the _first_ time Foyet attacked you?"

"Yes." Hotch shifted a little, already re-accustomed to the pain, accommodating it, accepting it. "This is hard."

"I know. I won't tell anyone, if you don't want me to."

"It's not that. It's just…I never felt so _helpless_ in my life. Not since I was a little kid, anyway." Hotch glanced up at Reid and saw only sympathy and encouragement. "Foyet had me on my back and I couldn't move. I kept fading in and out. Every time I'd come to, he'd be there _gloating_ over me." Hotch paused and took a few breaths.

"He really liked stabbing me. He'd slide one hand inside my shirt and hold it against my skin so he could feel my reaction each time the knife entered. He'd pull the knife out really slowly, too. God, it hurt so much. But he liked going in the best. When he started on my left side, he hit a rib. He was trying to slide the blade around it so he could go deeper. That was the worst. I couldn't help making sounds and I could feel my muscles sort of rippling on their own, the pain was so bad. Foyet liked it so much he tried to make it happen again…over and over. He hit three ribs. I think he would have kept on, but I was dying and he didn't want to lose his plaything yet. He still had plans…for Haley and Jack."

Hotch couldn't stop the single sob that wracked his painful body, but after a moment he regained control.

"When I woke up in the hospital, all I wanted was to get out and find a way to make him pay. So when they asked me how I was or how much pain I was feeling, I lied." He looked at Reid. "I want it all to go away. I don't want it to take up any more of my life."

Reid went to his side. As awkward as he found most situations that involved other people, this time he didn't hesitate. He hugged Hotch and whispered the only thing he could think of that might help.

"It's okay. We'll fix it. We'll make it better. I promise. And like you said, I don't break promises."


	8. Fathers and Sons

Hotch was doing his best to stay still. Reid had made him as comfortable as he could in the shabby, plaid easy chair but it still took some effort not to dislodge the cushion and heating pad at his back, or the ice laid over his bruised side.

"Fifteen more minutes and I'll take the ice off," Reid said. "If you need to move, just tell me and I'll hold it against you until you get settled."

"I'm okay." Reid recognized the automatic response. Hotch was always 'okay.'

Reid sighed. Even if he could heal Hotch's body, there were other wounds locked in secrecy that could be equally debilitating. He pulled out his phone and began dialing. When someone answered, an animated conversation began while he paced the length of the living room, periodically glancing at his watch and then at Hotch.

Hotch didn't try to eavesdrop. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the odd sensation of cold and heat simultaneously seeping into his body from different directions. He found it curious that although he'd done nothing more strenuous than shower, he was remarkably tired. And he missed Jack. Every time he asked, he was told that he'd see him 'soon,' but increasingly he felt a Jack-sized hole in his heart. He sniffed a little forlornly and tried to remember what it felt like to pick Jack up, and the fiercely protective feeling he got when he buried his nose in Jack's hair and snuffled loudly, which always made the boy squirm and giggle. Reid interrupted his train of thought when he lifted the ice pack off of his ribs and bent for another look at the area.

"No, I'm sure it's a re-injury, too," he said into the phone. "The bruises wouldn't have lasted for months. It's the internal damage that's…" The conversation faded as Reid paced away again.

After an interval while Reid listened to the party on the other end of the line, he signed off, put the phone away and returned to Hotch's side. Hotch glanced up at him inquiringly.

"So. That was a friend of mine on the phone. She's a physical therapist I met when they were treating my knee." Reid traced the contours of Hotch's ribs with one finger, judging the amount of swelling over the bones. "The clinic she worked in is under renovation. They've all been assigned to other facilities for the next couple of months." Reid saw Hotch was listening politely, but uncomprehendingly. "That means there's some equipment sitting idle that we can use." Reid straightened and reached behind Hotch's back to readjust the heating pad. When he had him settled to his satisfaction, he continued.

"Specifically, there's a portable ultrasound kit that I'll pick up tomorrow."

Hotch looked undecided. "Isn't ultrasound for things like pregnancy? Haley had that when she was carrying Jack." _Jack!_ His father's heart did another lonely little flip.

"It's also used to aid the healing process. It'll speed things up and help us regain some lost ground because of the time lag between your original injury and when you finally decided to let someone treat you." The condemnation in Reid's voice for such willful self-neglect was unmistakable. "It can help reduce the swelling more than ice. It can increase circulation which will accelerate healing. It can even help bone regenerate in some cases. It also provides a kind of gentle massage that should feel pretty good to you right about now."

"Thanks, Reid." Hotch looked distracted. And weary.

"Don't worry, Hotch. We'll take care of this. It'll get better." Reid observed his boss for a minute and then went into the kitchen. He looked through cupboards until he found one containing glasses. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Hotch wasn't watching, he filled a large one with water and emptied another sachet of the hangover cures J.J. had brought into it. If he was right about Hotch's avoidance of painkillers, it wouldn't take much to affect him. Diluting the dosage and having him sip it slowly over the course of an hour or so would relax him and take the edge off of the pain without necessarily putting him to sleep. Although sleep, lots and frequently, was something Reid thoroughly approved of in Hotch's case, he didn't want to knock him out just yet. There were some things that needed to be said before the day was over.

He stirred the glass of medicine and brought it over to his boss. Hotch looked up when he pressed it into his hand.

"Drink it slowly."

"Thanks." The fact that Hotch didn't question him about what the glass contained wasn't a good sign. He was drifting someplace and Reid thought it was probably a very isolated and dark location.

There wasn't much furniture in Hotch's apartment. Reid pulled the lone coffee table around and sat on its edge, facing the Unit Chief. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers laced together. He could tell Hotch was still somewhere else. Despite taking an occasional sip of water, his eyes had a distant, glazed look.

"Hotch? Hotch!"

With a small start, he refocused on Reid, abandoning whatever mental images had been occupying him. "I'm…"

"…Okay. I know. You're always okay." Reid finished Hotch's predictable response. "I need to talk to you."

The word 'need' caught Hotch's attention. The only time he ever felt truly worthwhile and justified in his existence was when someone needed him.

"Sure. What is it?" He was barely old enough to be Reid's father, just as Rossi was barely old enough to be his, but Reid sometimes asked for fatherly advice. Hotch took a deep breath and prepared to listen and offer whatever insight he could.

"Last night you said something that bothered me." Hotch's eyes darted away and back, trying to recall the nightmare of Haley's funeral and wake. Being dosed with whiskey at the end of the day had left him a little fuzzy on the details.

"I'm sorry."

"No, I don't want an apology. It wasn't like that." Reid held Hotch's gaze, hoping his team leader would see how earnest he was about this. "You said that you 'weren't strong enough.'" No response. "Hotch, you're the strongest man I know."

Always reluctant to accept a compliment, Hotch tried to deflect it with humor. "You _do_ know Derek Morgan, don't you?" He had long ago acknowledged that his own body was built along slimmer lines and even if he worked out every day, he would never bulk up with muscle the way Morgan could.

"I'm serious." The young doctor's expression forestalled any more attempts to avoid or deflect. Hotch returned his steady regard. "Hotch, I've never known anyone who tried so _hard_ to do everything right all the time. You _never_ stop trying. You _never_ give up. You inspire other people to try to do better than their best." Reid searched his leader's face and saw only a very private, self-contained kind of sorrow. "And the only one who doesn't see that is you." Hotch looked down and retreated behind taking a sip of the water that he now realized tasted a little bitter.

"I know how you are. I'm not saying this to make you uncomfortable. But for you to say you're 'not strong'? I can't let that pass. Your only weakness is in how you see yourself. And even that has a twisted sort of nobility about it." Hotch swallowed, but kept quiet. Reid stood up.

"I didn't have any male role models growing up, Hotch. My dad left us when I was ten and I was alone trying to take care of a paranoid schizophrenic. All I'm saying is, I really wish I'd had someone like you around."

There was a soft tapping at the door.

"So don't ever denigrate yourself like that. I just wish…oh, never mind. I'm glad you're here and I know you now." The soft tapping came again.

Reid went to the door and looked through the peephole.

"Hey, it's Rossi and Jack!" he announced. Hotch bolted from the chair, eager to see his son, scattering cushions, ice pack and heating pad in his wake.

When Reid opened the door, Rossi walked in, finger to lips, admonishing the others to be quiet. Hotch's heart overflowed at sight of the child in pale blue, rockets-and-spaceships pajamas. But when he reached for him, Rossi turned away slightly, denying him access.

"Shhhhhh. He's asleep. Just let me put him down." Rossi motioned with his chin toward the hallway. Hotch reluctantly backed off, but took the lead bringing Rossi to the room where he had temporarily installed his son. Eventually, he knew he'd have to find a different place to live. It was unthinkable to return to the house he and Haley had shared after all that had happened there, but he wanted something bigger and friendlier for his four year old. For now, this would do.

Hotch folded down the covers and Rossi tucked Jack into them. At the last moment, Rossi bent down and lightly brushed his lips across Jack's forehead.

"_Sogni d'oro, il mio bambino_," Rossi whispered. Hotch looked inquiringly at Reid.

"Sweet dreams, my baby," Reid translated.

Rossi and Reid stood in the doorway as Hotch knelt by the bed. He didn't want to wake the child, but he needed contact desperately. They watched as Hotch inhaled his son's fragrance and gently stroked his cheek with one finger.

"He's nuzzling him," Reid whispered. Rossi looked puzzled. "I'll explain later."

They left Hotch alone and returned to the living room.

"How's it going?" Rossi asked as Reid picked up the ice pack and emptied it into the kitchen sink.

"We have a ways to go." Reid sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Anything I need to know?"

"Uh, no, not really." Reid glanced at his watch. "I'm gonna get going. If I hurry, I think I can pick up a portable ultrasound before traffic gets too crazy."

"Portable ultrasound?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna use it on Hotch." Reid looked back toward the hallway, making sure he wouldn't be overheard. "Rossi, he's messed up. I think we've all always known that he's hard on himself more than anyone else, but we let him get too far down that road. He's gonna have a hard time coming back."

Rossi merely sighed. "Good night, kiddo. I'll take it from here."

"Okay. Oh! I put some painkiller stuff in that glass of water. He should drink the rest of it. He doesn't have any resistance so it might make him drowzy."

"'S'allright. I got it."

By the time Hotch returned to the living room, Reid had left and Rossi had poured himself a shot of Scotch. He had brought one of the chairs from Hotch's bedroom out and had taken a seat facing the easy chair.

"Thanks for bringing him, Dave. Can I get you anyth…oh, you already got something." Hotch hovered for a moment before Rossi gestured him toward the chair where the heating pad rested.

"Sit down, Hotch." He waited for the younger man to take a seat and then nodded toward the glass of water. "Reid says you're to finish that. It'll help you sleep."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Now that Jack was back, Hotch didn't want to be anything less than completely present and aware. He dreaded the possibility that Jack would need him and he would be unresponsive because of some medication.

"Drink it. It'll be alright." Rossi noted his lingering reluctance. "Morgan's coming by later. He'll be here if either you or Jack need anything during the night."

"No, Rossi, they told me he was here last night. He didn't need to do that. We'll be fine. I'm okay…really."

"Of course you are. Now shut up and take your medicine." Hotch took a small, token sip while Rossi looked him over.

"Do you remember last night?"

"Kinda." Hotch was sure he'd done or said something bad, but other than a feeling of nebulous dread, he couldn't quite dredge up specifics.

Rossi took a sip of his own drink. "You said some things. Some weren't totally a surprise to me. Some were. Do you remember?"

"I told you about my father." Hotch was studying the floor again, avoiding eye contact, hiding in plain sight. Rossi was having none of it.

"Look at me. Aaron. Look…at…me."

Hotch looked up. The compassion and warmth he saw in Rossi's expression made him gulp. It was a struggle to keep back the tears, but he was tired of crying. It seemed as though he'd cried more in the last five days than in the entire rest of his life. He gave himself a stern reminder that he was _not_ a crying kind of man.

"Hotch, you told us a secret that you'd been keeping for a very long time." Rossi's voice was softer now, kinder.

"I know, Dave. I'm sorry. Can we just forget abou…"

"NO. We can't. Morgan and I will keep the secret for you, but you have to let it go. It's not yours anymore. It's ours and we'll protect it for you as long as you stop letting it hurt you."

Hotch took a long, shuddering breath. "The thing is, Dave, we both know how abuse travels from generation to generation. What happens if Jack turns seven and I…I turn into my father?" The catch in Hotch's voice made Rossi's heart contract. Now he wished he could re-kill both Foyet _and_ Hotch's own father for the pain they'd put this blameless man through.

"Do you really think I would stand by and let that happen? Do you think I wouldn't _know_ it was happening? And do you really think you're that kind of man?"

"I don't know. I just don't know." He sounded miserable and unsettlingly sincere.

Rossi sat back and studied his friend. Reid was right: there was a long road in front of Hotch. Rossi came to a decision.

"Hotch, you told us one of your secrets, so I'm going to tell you one of mine."

"You don't have to do that, Dave." Hotch looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

"I want to." Rossi downed the rest of the Scotch in his glass, went to the bar, poured himself another two fingers worth and returned to his seat with it.

"I was never lucky enough to have children…None that lived, anyway." He raised the glass and tasted the liquor. "That's a terrible thing for an Italian, Roman Catholic man. So sometimes I pretend I _am_ a father."

Hotch looked up. Rossi smiled encouragingly.

"Let me tell you about my pretend-son. He's Italian, of course. And, since he's mine, it goes without saying that he's handsome." A smile ghosted across Hotch's lips. Rossi continued.

"He's smart and hard-working. He's brave, but more importantly, he's courageous. Bravery lets him do things others wouldn't. Courage lets him _face_ those things about which nothing _can_ be done. He's kind and considerate." Rossi drained his glass. "He has a big heart and a beautiful spirit. Most of all, I am proud of my son every day in every way." Rossi stood up, brought his empty glass to the kitchen and then returned. He stood over Hotch and looked down at him.

"And I love him very, very much." Before Hotch knew what he intended, Rossi bent over and brushed his lips lightly across Hotch's forehead, just as he had with Jack.

"That is my pretend son, the one I would choose above all others, if I could." Rossi walked to the door and opened it. Just before stepping out into the hallway, he turned.

"His name is Aaron...Good night, son."


	9. A Prayer in the Night

Hotch remained seated for some time after Rossi left. He couldn't quite decide how he felt. He was surprised by Rossi's revelation about his pretend-son. There was a little spark of joy that someone could ever consider him good son material. There was also a vague horror that anyone who felt that way probably didn't know him. If he'd been good son material in the first place, his own father wouldn't have spent so much time and energy trying to destroy him. He wouldn't have enjoyed it so much either.

J.J. was right. He was tired, hurt and grieving and now a whole new set of conflicting emotions was roiling through him. As much as he hated to give in to them, he felt tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks yet again. The last vestige of control he could muster was devoted to keeping his sobs quiet so they wouldn't disturb Jack.

Aaron cried. He cried for all the men who should have been fathers and weren't, and for all the unwanted sons who so desperately needed them, but would never know them. He cried for the men who never should have fathered children, and for the sons who had inherited their resentment and hate. And when he was so immersed in his own sorrow that he couldn't think clearly, he cried for himself and for the weak fraud he felt himself to be. Jack deserved so much better. He worked so hard at keeping up a façade at work, but in his depleted state they were sure to see through it, discover the real Aaron Hotchner and realize he wasn't worthy of being their leader. Then there would be no place for him anywhere. There would be no good reason to be in anyone's life.

A small part of him, the part that some people call 'hope,' that Reid recognized as his unassailable strength, always sat on the sidelines and watched him struggle when he felt this way. It always stepped in and refused to let him give up. Sometimes he hated it, because it wouldn't let him rest. This time, once again, he felt it exert itself.

The tears stopped. He stumbled to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water over his face. After a moment, he felt better. After a few more, he realized that this bout with his emotions had been different. He hadn't wept so uncontrollably since he'd gathered Haley's dead body in his arms. Then it had been painful and afterwards he had felt as though his insides had been slashed raw. He had to acknowledge that this time he felt drained, exhausted, but emptied of something hurtful that had been living inside him. He was too tired to examine it more closely.

Out in the hallway, Rossi stood guard, listening to the gut-wrenching sobs. He leaned his head against the door and closed his eyes, wondering if the hardest part of being a parent was having to let your children go through such pain before they could come out on the other side and move past it. His big, Italian heart broke a little.

When the sobbing finally stopped, he listened until he heard water running. He placed the palm of his hand against the door and whispered "_Sara bene, Aaron_."… _It'll be alright_. He looked at his watch and walked out to the street to wait for Morgan.

Hotch was too troubled to sleep yet. He looked in on Jack and then went back to the kitchen, thinking he would have to find something for Jack's breakfast. When he opened the refrigerator and was blinded by Garcia's array of rainbow-bright tupperware, he even managed something resembling a smile. At least Jack would be well-fed.

Hotch returned to his son's room and sat on the floor next to the bed, resting his chin on the covers so his head was on a level with Jack's. He breathed in the boy's familiar scent and watched him sleep until his own eyes began to close. He didn't hear the light knock at the door.

When he knocked and no one answered, Morgan pulled out a key. Jessica had passed it on to Rossi when he'd picked up Jack, and Rossi had given it to Morgan along with the alarm code just in case he needed it during the night. He had also mentioned that Hotch might be a little wrung-out emotionally.

Morgan let himself in and noted that the alarm hadn't been set. Lights were still on, so he didn't think Hotch had retired for the night. It was second nature for him to methodically search each room. He had to remind himself not to yell out "FBI!" as he entered or "Clear!" when there were no occupants.

When he came to Jack's room and saw Hotch, he smiled. As gently as he could, he reached down, slipped his hands under Hotch's arms and lifted him up. Hotch snapped awake, instantly on the defensive in case this intruder was a threat to his son. When he realized who it was, he relaxed. Morgan nodded toward the hallway and kept a hand on his boss' back as they walked down it to the living room.

"Morgan, you don't have to stay here. We'll be fine."

"I have my orders Hotch. You're just gonna have to let me follow them."

"What 'orders?'"

Morgan pulled a worn piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, he began to read. "You're supposed to eat one more time before bed; whatever you want, but Prentiss says the steak better be gone by the time she comes back. Garcia says the round orange container is for breakfast…three minutes in the microwave. Reid says if you haven't finished the drink he gave you…" Morgan looked around the room until he saw the mostly-full glass sitting on the coffee table and nodded, "…then I'm supposed to throw it out and give you the prescription pills in the medicine cabinet instead." Morgan turned the paper over and continued. "And J.J. just says to give you a big hug, but I think I'll pass on that." He folded the paper and slipped it back in his pocket. Hotch managed to look defiant and defeated at the same time.

"You guys aren't gonna leave me alone, are you?"

"Not yet." Morgan's eyes dropped to Hotch's left side. "I also want a look at…_that_. First, you eat."

Morgan managed to coax him to finish the rest of the steak as well as one of Garcia's cookies. The pill turned out to be a mild sedative. Morgan watched like a hawk to make sure Hotch actually swallowed it. The worst part was when Hotch obediently removed his shirt and Morgan looked at him under the fluorescent glare in the bathroom. Unknowingly, he echoed Reid's sentiment.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Hotch."

"Not you're fault."

"Still…"

Eventually, Hotch became drowsy and Morgan watched him go to his room and close the door.

Morgan wandered around the apartment, looking at details that could give him more insights into his leader. He noted the lack of stereo, radio, or even speakers as TV accessories. It puzzled him at first, but then an image hit him hard. A man who beat his family might play music at top volume to disguise the noise, the screaming and violence. Hotch's childhood had probably had a lot of loud music in it. Morgan looked at the closed bedroom door and ached for his friend.

He spent a good deal of the night thinking, looking out of the living room window and watching the night progress. Hotch had told him once that he trusted him with his life and always would. He had questioned Morgan's willingness to do the same. Morgan hadn't known how to tell Hotch that he did, in fact, trust him. He couldn't explain how that was such a rare and precious thing in Morgan's world, it made it unthinkable for him to allow Hotch to risk himself in any way. He had to keep the one man he truly trusted safe. Now he had to find a way to make that man believe that he was worthy of such devotion.

So Hotch's first full day of healing ended as it had begun, with Morgan standing sentinel.

And if at some point during the night Morgan sat by Hotch's bedside and placed a gentle hand over his chest just to feel his heart beat, Hotch never knew.

And if he sent up a fervent prayer for that heart to be comforted and asked that it be allowed to continue its steady, strong rhythm for a very, very long time, Derek never told.


	10. Fevered Dreams

He was walking through a meadow. He could smell the fragrance of sun-warmed grass. It was beautiful, but he couldn't enjoy it. He knew it only looked good on the outside. It concealed something that knotted his stomach and made him feel like a panicked animal; trapped, with no hope of escape or rescue. The meadow gave way to rolling hills covered with wildflowers. There was something odd about one hill. As he got closer he saw there was a cave in its side, a burrow of some sort. Something in the burrow stank. It had a rotten, death-driven odor.

It knew him.

Knew him by name.

Wanted him.

He stopped in front of the entrance and saw movement. An oily mass that undulated and pulsed. Things were coming to the surface as it writhed. Faces. Each one screamed at him through a slimy film, begging for help before it was drawn back down, its mouth filling with darkness, the screams bubbling and spouting black liquid. He had no choice. They needed help. He had to try.

He stepped through the opening and was seized by something powerful. It called his name, welcoming him, demanding him, hungry for him…

"Hotch….Hotch!... It's okay… I got you…Hotch!"

Morgan was standing over him, pinning his shoulders down. He forced himself to lie still and closed his eyes, letting his breath return to normal. Morgan slowly eased up on him.

"You okay?"

Hotch's laugh sounded more like a gasp. "Didn't Reid tell you? I'm _always _okay."

Morgan smiled. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." He took one final, deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Morgan, this isn't me. I don't have bad dreams. I'm sorry."

"I know it's not you, man. This is what happens when the _real_ you gets thrown into something completely _sur_real. It's like PTSD or those bruises." he nodded at Hotch's injuries. "You're dealing with it and it'll take time to heal. Your _way_ of dealing with it is new to all of us, so we're keeping you close, because none of us, including you, know what to expect." Morgan looked down the length of his friend's body. "You _will_ recover, Hotch. Just give yourself time. And stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault."

Hotch smiled for Morgan's sake, but he _did_ feel better this morning. Sleep and food were powerful medicine. He _knew_ that. He didn't know why he had such trouble taking care of himself. He was a little ashamed of turning his team into babysitters.

He stretched his arms over his head and winced at the griping pain in his side. Morgan was looking at his midriff and frowning.

"I know it looks bad. Hurts like hell."

"Um, Hotch?" Morgan was moving around, viewing his ribs from different angles. "I'm gonna put my hand just really lightly over you. Breathe normally, okay?"

Something in Morgan's tone made Hotch wary, so he concentrated on regular, even breathing. He could see Morgan holding his hand flat and steady. At the top of every breath he felt slight contact, but it was only on his right side.

_Oh, great. Foyet…the gift that keeps on giving_, he thought.

Sure enough, after a few minutes Morgan pulled his hand back and gave Hotch a concerned look. "I think your right lung is inflating more than the left one." He chewed on the corner of one lip. "That's not good."

"I know."

"Reid's coming over today with that ultra sound thing. If he says to, will you let me take you to an urgent care center?"

"Yeah." Hotch sighed, more aware than ever of the pain, the difference in his left side. The slight optimism he'd felt faded to grey and then winked out.

Breakfast was a somber affair. Morgan had thought Hotch's appetite would improve, but he ate mechanically and not nearly enough for a man over six feet tall whose body was crying out for nutrients to heal itself.

Hotch was worried about Jack. He watched him play with the quiche Garcia had provided. She had painted a rainbow on it in food coloring and Jack was fascinated by it, but Hotch wondered how the boy was coping. His mother had been murdered, his father was virtually an invalid, he'd been moved between three different homes in five days, and there was always a BAU team member around. And Hotch's dark, box-filled bachelor-hole was an uninviting place for a child. Every few minutes Hotch told himself _not_ to worry about his lungs; he would be okay. And every time he heard the word 'okay' in his mind, he stumbled over it. He knew it was a false front. Apparently, the whole team knew it, too.

While Morgan rinsed the few dishes, Hotch settled Jack on the living room floor with crayons and coloring books. He sat in the one easy chair and watched his son in silence. Morgan hovered and then pulled a chair up next to Hotch and sat with one hand on his friend's shoulder. Every once in a while, he would squeeze it consolingly, but Hotch didn't seem to notice. He was someplace far away where Morgan couldn't follow.

Morgan was tremendously relieved when he heard Reid's voice in the hallway. What he couldn't figure out was why Reid was calling instructions and telling someone to 'be careful.' It reminded him of Garcia when she was riding shotgun on the transportation of her tupperware containers. Hotch picked up Jack, winced when his side hurt, and followed Morgan to the door.

This time Reid was laden with tubes and cords and boxes of medical supplies. He was keeping careful watch as two men wrestled a large, obviously heavy contraption over the front doorsill and wheeled it toward the apartment. When they bounced it over Hotch's doorsill, Reid again scolded, "Be _careful_! It's medical equipment!"

When the unit was finally inside and the men had left, he turned a wide, beaming grin on Hotch and Morgan. "Hey, Jack! How's it goin'?" He ruffled Jack's hair. "We're gonna make your daddy feel a whole lot better now." When he looked up and saw Morgan's face, his good humor vanished.

"What?"

Morgan looked at Jack. Hotch turned and carried the boy back to his nest of coloring books.

"Something's wrong with his lungs, Reid."

Reid looked over to where Hotch was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his son, talking softly to him.

"He was doing alright yesterday. What happened?"

"I don't know. He woke up this morning with a bad dream and while he was flat on his back I could tell they're not filling up evenly."

Reid frowned and deposited his armful of medical implements on the kitchen counter. He scrabbled among them, extracting a stethoscope and looping it around his neck. "Hotch, come here."

The Unit Chief looked up, gave his son one more hug and struggled to his feet, clearly favoring his left side. When he reached them, Reid lifted his t-shirt up and watched him breathe.

"Hmmmmmm." _God, I hate that_, thought Hotch, but remained silent. Reid inserted the stethoscope's earpieces. He placed one hand on Hotch's back, frowned again, and with the other pressed the disc end of the scope against the left side of his leader's chest. "Deep breath," was the terse order. He listened to a few different areas then set the stethoscope back on the pile of other instruments. He ran his fingers over the ridged muscles locked into painful formation on Hotch's back before he spoke again.

"You had a bad dream?"

"Yeah."

Reid placed his hand on Hotch's forehead and quickly withdrew it, turning to Morgan. "He has a fever. He's burning up." Morgan stepped forward and laid the back of his hand against Hotch's cheek.

"Oh, yeah. He is kinda warm."

"He's more than 'warm.' I felt it when I touched his back, too. He's sick, Morgan."

"That would make his lungs inflate unevenly?"

"Maybe; if it's a lung infection or if he's getting pneumonia because for months now his left lung has been unable to fill properly. Might give him bad dreams, too." Reid backed away. "I know you guys think I can help with this kind of stuff, and I _can_, but I'm not gonna risk making the wrong guess. Hotch, I'm sorry, but I'm taking you in." Hotch's downcast eyes and slumped shoulders were eloquent. "I know, Hotch," Reid continued. "But this way, we'll know for sure, we'll get everything cleared up, and you'll feel better faster."

Hotch nodded and looked at Jack who was watching what seemed like his daddy getting yelled at. Hotch went to him and knelt, taking his shoulders and looking into his eyes. "Jack, Daddy has to go get some medicine, so you might have to stay at Aunt Jessica's for a little while. Is that okay?"

Jack nodded. "Daddy, are you sick?"

"Maybe. But if I am, it's only for a little while and the doctors will make me all better." He pulled his son close. "I love you. I love you _so_ much. Always remember that."

Reid and Morgan looked at each other. Both were thinking how much it would have meant to have such a father when they were growing up. And both had heard the defeated tone. It was almost as though Hotch was saying goodbye to his son for the last time.

Morgan volunteered to stay behind with Jack until they knew more. He thought Reid would be the best one to communicate with doctors about what Hotch had been experiencing. He also wanted to alert the others to this latest development.

Hotch gave his son one more hug and a brave smile to allay his worries.

Reid took Hotch out to his car. Before pulling away from the curb he looked over at his boss. "This is for the best, Hotch." The only response was a quick flick of the man's eyes from the dashboard to Reid and back. Reid put the car in gear. "Are you okay?"

"I'm oka…._fine_. I'm _fine_." Reid gave him a sharp look. The tiny quirk at the edge of Hotch's mouth did more than any words ever could to reassure him that Hotch was still that guy who never stopped trying. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He wasn't built that way.

But he looked flushed now and Reid noticed some perspiration on his top lip. Reid pulled out and drove as fast as he dared. Even if Hotch never stopped fighting, there were some things that could defeat him. Reid just hoped that one of those things wasn't already lodged somewhere in his body.


	11. The Boy's Okay--Sort of

"God! He can't catch a break, can he!?" Prentiss had stopped by Hotch's apartment only to find Morgan looking after Jack and trying to keep the worry out of his voice as he called other team members to let them know Hotch was, once again, hospitalized.

"Doesn't look like it." Morgan glanced at the boy watching a DVD of "The Lion King." He seemed blessedly oblivious to anything dark or ugly in his world.

"And what the hell is this?"

"Some kind of ultra sound thing. Reid was gonna use it on Hotch. I don't know if that's still the plan."

Prentiss circled the machine with a jaundiced eye. She found the pile of medical supplies lumped on the counter and regarded them with suspicion. "Why, that little…" She rounded on Morgan. "That little weasel wasn't planning on taking Hotch to the doctor at all, was he? If you hadn't noticed his weird breathing, he'd still be here and Reid would be playing with his new toy, experimenting on Hotch, right?"

"I…I don't know." Morgan had no idea who had said what to whom or when, but he made it a point not to tangle with Prentiss when she was angry. He whole-heartedly believed the observation that females were the deadlier of the species, especially when said female was carrying a gun.

"What hospital did the weasel take him to?"

"The closest…St. Sebastian's."

"Isn't that where The Reaper dropped him off?"

"Yeah, well, Hotch was bleeding to death and Foyet didn't want him to check out too soon, so St. Sebastian's was the best chance he had."

"Damn. That'll be one helluva déjà vu. Poor Hotch." She looked at the ultra sound machine again. "I'm gonna kill Reid."

Dr. Zwerling saw hundreds of patients each week, but when she opened the examining room door and saw the man waiting for her, her heart sank. She remembered this one. He had never complained. He had bounced back faster than anyone thought possible and had agitated for release just days after undergoing major surgery. She recalled the wounds of that horrendous knife attack. She'd half expected him to return for physical therapy or at least the counseling offered to victims of violent crimes. But reminders left on his voice mail went unanswered, and as days and then weeks slipped by, she assumed that if he'd needed follow-up care, he'd gone somewhere else.

She wished he had. The poor thing was terribly thin and looked…haunted…for lack of a better word. His friend had collared her before she came in and had filled her in on the latest misadventures of Agent Hotchner. Clearly, the friend was worried. She was, too. She smiled professionally and pulled up the rolling stool ubiquitous to examining rooms the world over.

"Hello, Agent. I'm Dr. Zwerling. Do you remember me from the last time you were here?"

"Yes. Hello, Doctor."

She lifted his chin and studied his eyes. His skin felt warm and the eyes looked bloodshot and too bright, fever-bright. "Not feeling so good?"

"Guess not."

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

He hesitated. "If it makes it any easier, I already talked to your friend, Dr. Reid." Hotch nodded. "Why don't we start with the pain you're feeling in your side…tell me when it started and what it feels like…burning, aching, stabbing…" She already knew the answers from what Reid had said, but she wanted to get this man talking so she could assess his mental state. As Hotch began to tell her about the last few months and the last few days in particular, she drew several conclusions.

This man was definitely depressed, but she thought his physical condition had more to do with that than anything else. Heal the body and the mind would follow. That was a relief. She had seen too many patients begin a slippery slide downward once they were medicated for emotional problems. It would be a shame to see this one follow that route. She liked him. There was something good and decent about him that couldn't be concealed. Even now, she could see it shining through. Still, counseling wasn't a bad idea.

Within half an hour, Dr. Zwerling had done some preliminary poking and prodding and had written orders for x-rays, an MRI, a full blood analysis and some lab work to verify or deny the presence of bacterial pneumonia. She sent the specifics to the appropriate departments and told Mr. Hotchner where to go next for the first set of tests. He would not be leaving until all of them had been performed and the results had been read.

When she left him, she made a point of giving the same information to his friend, Dr. Reid, just to be sure the patient followed through.

Reid accompanied Hotch to each area of the hospital for each set of tests. It was while he was in the MRI waiting room that Prentiss caught up with him.

"Weasel!"

Reid startled, but held his ground.

"What?"

"Oh, don't play innocent." Prentiss' dark eyes snapped. "You told me you'd take him to a doctor and the whole time you were planning on some kind of Dr. Frankenstein experiment in his own home? Weasel!"

"He's _here_! I _did_ take him to see a doctor!"

"I already talked to Morgan. If he hadn't said anything, you'd probably have Hotch tied down to a table trying God-knows-what on him."

"Still might," mumbled Reid.

"_WHAT_?"

"Nothing."

Prentiss looked around the waiting room. "So where is he?"

Reid pointed with his chin. Even through the solid door separating them from the room where the actual test was performed, they could hear the slamming noises of the MRI. "This is the last one. Then we wait for the doctor to read the results and…" Reid trailed off.

Prentiss sat next to the young doctor and placed her hand over his, giving it a brief squeeze. "He'll be okay." Reid looked at her and mirrored her slight smile. It was exactly what Hotch would have said.

It had been a long, tiring day for Hotch. He was back in the examining room where Dr. Zwerling had originally seen him, waiting for her to bring the test results. Reid, Prentiss and Rossi were keeping him company as "family members." When the doctor came in carrying a folder of printouts, she hesitated upon seeing so many people crowded into the little room. She vaguely remembered that they were all FBI agents, so she supposed it was alright to share Hotch's medical evaluation with them. He didn't seem to mind when she closed the door and they all shuffled about to make room for her.

"The bad news is, there are some things wrong," she began without preamble. "The good news is that we can take care of it all." She smiled at Hotch. "You're going to be okay."

She had no idea why Dr. Reid and Agent Prentiss exchanged glances and then burst into laughter.

By early evening Hotch was in Jack's room, talking softly, reassuring his son that everything was oka…_fine_… and making him understand that although Daddy was sick, he would be better soon and then things would get back to normal. Privately, Hotch didn't know what 'normal' was now, but he was confident he and Jack would find out together.

In the living room, Morgan had made calls to Garcia and J.J., filling them in on their supervisor's health and the plan for the next few days. Prentiss was still glowering at the ultra sound machine, but Reid looked smugly vindicated. One of Dr. Zwerling's instructions had been for Hotch to have ultra sound therapy. Rossi was going through the vibrant array of Garcia's tupperware and assembling dinner for them.

Morgan had eaten earlier along with Jack. Once he was finished making calls, he set about gathering enough chairs for everyone to have a seat from around the apartment and assembling them in the living room.

"So he needs to take…what?...the antibiotics with food?" Prentiss was reading the labels of the prescriptions they'd filled while on the way home.

"Antibiotics with food; muscle relaxant three times a day; pain killers and cough suppressant as needed," recited Reid from memory.

Hotch had the beginnings of pneumonia. It didn't require hospitalization and, if Dr. Zwerling's instructions were followed, shouldn't get to that point. However, she had been emphatic about bringing Hotch back if anything at all worsened. She said a cough would likely develop, but the suppressant should control it and allow him to sleep without coughing himself awake.

His original rib injuries would always trouble him and would re-injure easily, if he wasn't careful. The last fight with Foyet had caused some bone fragments to separate. That, along with the budding pneumonia accounted for his discomfort and for the spectacularly painful muscle spasm on his back. Reid was thrilled that he would have the opportunity to try to break up the fragments with an array of different ultra sound settings and attachments.

The general mood was one of relief and optimism. Except for Rossi. He knew Hotch too well to think, as Zwerling did, that his depression was entirely due to his physical state. Rossi suspected that there was still something Hotch wasn't telling them.

But he was certain that he would find out what it was.

After all, he knew his boy.


	12. Digging Deeper

When Hotch emerged from Jack's room, he joined the others in the kitchen area.

"Smells good," he said, watching Rossi heat up a large container of beef Stroganoff.

Rossi gave him an appraising look. "It's good to see you can take an interest in food again."

"Garcia really cooked all this?" He was amazed at the tech analysts' speed and productivity when it came to her job. He'd had no idea those traits extended to her culinary abilities, too.

"That's my Baby Girl," Morgan grinned. "Go big or go home."

"I need to thank her." Hotch watched Rossi assembling a large bowl of salad. "I need to thank all of you. I don't know where Jack and I would be right now if you guys weren't…hadn't…"

"It's alright, Aaron," Rossi interrupted.

"You'd probably be in the hospital with full-blown pneumonia and Jack would be with Jessica." Reid tended to take things literally.

"Shut up, Reid." Prentiss hadn't entirely forgiven him for thinking he could play doctor on Hotch's behalf. And she still didn't like the ultra sound machine in their midst.

"Enough, children!" Rossi ladled large portions of Stroganoff onto mismatched plates. "_Mangiamo_! Let's eat."

Dinner was convivial and pleasant. Wine was offered to everyone except Hotch, who had dutifully swallowed an antibiotic and a muscle relaxant. Morgan had already eaten with Jack, but he enjoyed the wine and the company, keeping a close eye on his boss who, despite improvement, was suffering the effects of a long day of medical procedures and the unaccustomed medications.

Morgan was feeling a little ragged himself. He'd spent most of the previous night awake, looking in on Hotch and occasionally Jack. Anxiety over what they might find when Reid had taken Hotch to the hospital had kept him running on nervous energy for most of the day. Still, when he noticed his boss starting to fade, he stepped in.

"Up, Hotch." He bracketed the man's shoulders and lifted him from his seat. "Bedtime, boss-man. Go get ready." Morgan pushed him toward the bathroom and watched as he went in and closed the door. Minutes later when he reappeared in his shabby robe and sweats, Prentiss, Reid and Rossi smiled at the sight of their Unit Chief being bundled off to bed, reminding them of a large, drowsy puppy.

They heard Hotch and Morgan having a low-voiced conversation and then Morgan came out smiling, a look of pure mischief animating his expression.

"Prentiss, he wants to see you."

"Me! Why?!"

"Dunno. Needs somethin' you got, I guess." Morgan plopped down in his seat and picked up his wine glass. "He's waiting…"

Prentiss pushed back her chair and rose. She gave Morgan a calculating look. When she reached Hotch's bedroom door, she cautiously peered around the corner before entering.

"What?" Reid asked, head ping-ponging between Morgan and the door which now closed quietly. Rossi merely raised his eyebrows.

"Relax, kid." Morgan emptied his glass. "He just wants her to talk him through some breathing thing she did to him yesterday."

"The heat-and-ice therapy?"

"Yeah. I offered to, but he said he liked the way she did it. Put him to sleep." Morgan stretched. "He's almost out anyway. It shouldn't take much."

Twenty minutes later, when Prentiss hadn't returned, the men looked at their watches, at each other, and then reached a silent accord to see what was taking so long. Rossi took the lead. He turned the knob and eased the door open a little, surveying the room through a two-inch gap. With an amused 'huh!' he opened it all the way and entered, Morgan and Reid close behind.

In the darkened room, Hotch lay on his back, obviously asleep, a peaceful look on his face. His breathing was a little labored, but deep and even. Prentiss was at his side, slowly moving her hand around his concave belly.

Morgan spoke in a hushed tone. "Prentiss, that's not heat-and-ice."

"I know, but he says it feels good."

Reid looked puzzled. "He's asleep. Why don't you stop?"

"Because it feels good."

"You need to go home, Derek." Rossi watched a cavernous yawn delay Morgan's response.

"Nope. This is my crib for…what did they say he'd need…three weeks?"

"Before he can return to duty. He should be much improved before then."

Reid and Prentiss had already left. Rossi had heard them arguing all the way down the hall about Reid's plans to initiate ultra sound therapy on Hotch the next afternoon. Prentiss was campaigning for a more experienced practitioner. Reid glossed over his lack by insisting he had already mastered the theory and all he needed was a couple of sessions with a human body to add this skill to his repertoire. Plus, when would he ever have access to the equipment _and_ a patient again? Privately, Rossi thought Prentiss might be the more effective therapist, judging by Hotch's willingness to let her give him a belly rub.

"Go home," he instructed Morgan again. "I'm older, I need less sleep."

"Oh, come on, Rossi. You're not _that_ old."

"You'd be surprised. Go home."

After a long pause, "You'll call me if you need me?"

"Absolutely. Go home, Derek. I'll look after him tonight."

The coughing started at around 2 a.m.

Hotch knew there was prescription suppressant somewhere; either kitchen or bathroom seemed likely. Before he could drag himself upright to go search, Rossi was there, medicine and spoon in hand.

"Don't get up, Aaron." He peered at the dosage instructions and then poured out two spoonfuls, watching Hotch grimace as he swallowed each. After several minutes, the coughing eased, then stopped. He watched Hotch panting lightly, trying to catch his breath. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really. Just feels weird."

"It'll be better if you don't lie flat." Rossi gathered pillows and layered them at Hotch's back, propping him up at a 45 degree angle. Then he sat at the bedside and watched his friend's breathing slowly return to normal.

"So now you and Morgan are taking turns babysitting Jack and me?"

"Uh huh." Rossi leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, and nodded.

"You don't need to." Rossi's steady regard didn't waver. "Really, Dave, I'm a lot better and I know what to do if I get worse." It was a bit unsettling how Rossi could maintain eye contact. "I'm fine, really…" Hotch finished with less conviction than he'd begun.

"Are you?"

"Yes, I…what…what do you mean?"

"Something's still eating at you deep inside, Hotch. It's making you sad. That makes Jack sad. Don't think kids can't tell." Hotch turned away and looked toward the door.

"I should go check on Jack."

"Jack doesn't need to be checked on." Rossi paused and considered how to take this necessary conversation deeper. "Do you _want_ Jack to be sad?"

"No! God, no! How could you even _think_ that?"

"Because you don't want to make yourself happier."

"I…I don't know what to say, Dave."

Rossi laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them, studying an increasingly uncomfortable Hotch.

"Does it have to do with your childhood?" Silence. "With Foyet?"

A long pause that Rossi chose not to hurry.

"Kinda."

Another long pause.

"I guess I didn't tell you everything." Hotch's voice was very low. Rossi knew it was a subconscious desire _not_ to be heard, _never_ to speak whatever came next.

"Aaron, there's nothing you can tell me that I don't want to hear. I know you better than you know yourself. That's what I do, remember? There's nothing you can tell me that will change how I see you."

Hotch closed his eyes, trying to hide from this man who wouldn't let him run away. Trying to hide from himself.

"Oh, God, Dave. When I almost killed my father, when I _did_ kill Foyet…I _enjoyed_ it. I _loved_ it." He turned a tortured gaze on Rossi. "You still think I'm not my father's son?"

"Aaron, how long did you know your father, your _abusive_ father? From seven to fifteen?" Hotch nodded, unsure where this was headed or why it mattered. "I met you when you were twenty-four. I knew right away that you were supposed to be mine. You were your father's for eight years. You've been mine for nineteen. So, no, I don't think you're your father's son.

"And as for enjoying those unspeakably violent moments of your life: How do you think a trapped animal feels when it's finally released from torment? How do you think a lost man feels when he finds a signpost and knows there's a way out? That he won't be wandering someplace dark and frightening for the rest of his life? I would use words like _exultant_, _joyous_, _redeemed_. When hope suddenly appears in a hopeless situation, you're allowed to enjoy it, to love it."

Rossi stood up. "Your father didn't deserve you, Aaron. And, God knows, you didn't deserve him. As for Jack? I think you two deserve each other in every way. For a man who's been handed a pretty raw deal, it's remarkable that you trust others as easily as you do."

Rossi bent over and touched his lips to Hotch's still somewhat warm brow.

"You need to learn to trust _yourself_." Rossi picked up the cough medicine and spoon and crossed to the door.

"Sleep well, Aaron. I'm just outside if you need me."

The door closed.

Hotch took a deep, shuddering breath and settled back into the mounded pillows. Something told him that there was no question of 'if.' There was probably no one in the world he and Jack needed _more_ than David Rossi.


	13. The Forever Hug

When Hotch woke up, he lay still and kept his eyes closed, taking inventory of his body and any progress or regression it might have made during the night. His chest hurt a little, which he supposed was the pneumonia asserting itself. Dr. Zwerling had said that he wasn't feeling it yet, but would in a day or two. But by then the antibiotics should start having an effect as they built up in his system. _So I'm oka…fine…for the pneumonia_, Hotch thought.

There was still the sharp pain they'd traced to the bone fragments resulting from his rib injury, but it was no worse and Reid seemed confident about the healing properties of the ultra sound he planned to use on Hotch later in the day. The muscle spasm in his back was relentless, but, again, they thought that if the rib injury was brought under control, the muscles would eventually relax…hopefully. _So far, so good_, he told himself.

The only new things were that his throat hurt and _all_ of his ribs as well as stomach muscles ached. _The coughing_, he thought. _It's just like any other muscles you don't use often …the unaccustomed workout makes them protest_. He also felt curiously light-headed and groggy. His mind was floating, not making the sharp, decisive connections it usually did. _Drugs_, he decided. Reid was right; he didn't do much to make himself feel better when he was suffering, but part of that was because he didn't like what drugs did to his ability to think, to see layers upon layers of circumstances and probable consequences and possible solutions. He loved puzzles and riddles, because he could solve them better and faster than most. It made him good at his job. It made him feel useful. If that ability was compromised, he lost a lot of his value. _Right now, I'm not worth much_, he concluded regretfully.

He struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, leaning forward a little so he could catch his breath and let his head stop spinning before attempting the next big feat: standing. Slowly, he became aware of sounds. He realized they had been there since he woke, but his foggy thought processes hadn't been able to separate them out and recognize them. _Jack!_ He felt a little thrill of joy. If there was one person in the world who would still hold on to him even if his mind felt wrapped in cotton, who would still want to be close to him, who would still _love_ him, it would be Jack.

Now he heard another voice. Deeper. Masculine. Endlessly patient and gentle. _Rossi!_ Hotch was surprised that another joyous, little spark lit him up from within. Interspersed with the voices were other sounds that touched someplace deep in Hotch. He hadn't heard them since Haley had left him, taking Jack and everything that comprised a child's daily life with her. Things Hotch hadn't consciously labeled, but which had hurt to lose. Sounds like splashing and giggles. _Bath time!_ He pushed himself to stand up. He wanted to join Rossi and Jack even if all he could do was watch. He didn't want to miss out on any more daddy-moments.

Hotch swayed a little, but managed to put on his robe and make his way to the bedroom door. He held on to the door jamb until he felt stable and then headed out to the hallway and toward the bathroom.

The bathroom door was ajar. Hotch looked through the opening.

Jack was immersed in bubbles, a cap of baby-shampoo suds covering his hair. He was splashing his hands flat against the surface of the water, delighted with the loud, smacking noise and the resulting explosion of spray and sweet-scented lather. Apparently, this game had been going on for a while; quite a lot of bath had ended up on the floor as well as the man who knelt upon it, trying to blow bubble-foam back across the water toward the child, building it in drifts against him. Rossi was having a difficult time getting enough breath between chuckles. Patches of lather dripped from his beard. His sleeves were rolled up in a vain attempt to stay dry.

Hotch didn't think it was possible, but when Jack saw him, his smile widened even more.

"Daddy!" He shot his arms straight out and stood up in the tub, reaching for the man he loved more than any other. He slipped despite the dinosaur-shaped stickers applied to the tub's bottom. Rossi caught him.

"Whoa, there, champ. Tubs are slippery, slicky-sly things, remember?" Rossi sat the child back down and glanced over his shoulder toward the man standing in the doorway. Not for the first time, he thought that when Aaron smiled, _really_ smiled, he looked like a fox, the thin face transforming, eyes seeming to slant upward. It didn't happen often.

"Hey, buddy." Hotch grinned down at the tableau before him and entered the small room, taking a seat on the rim of the tub.

Jack was still reaching for his daddy, but Rossi held on, pulling down the shower head attachment on its hose. "Let's get all rinsed off before we hug Daddy, okay?" As he sluiced warm water over the child, he glanced at the father. "How are you feeling? How's the cough?"

"I'm fine. Cough's fine." Hotch reached for a towel and held it ready to receive Jack. When Rossi passed him over, Hotch wrapped him in terrycloth, hugging and cuddling as he dried his son off.

_Nuzzling_, thought Rossi. Reid had finally explained Prentiss' wolf pack story and her theory about their team's dynamics.

When Jack was dry, Hotch lifted him, towel and all, and stood. Rossi jumped up when he saw him sway backwards. Rather than take the child away, he held on to Hotch's waist and steadied him, letting him continue what Rossi now thought of as the 'nuzzling ritual.' _It's not just recognition and acceptance_, he thought. _It's a celebration of love_. He gave Hotch's waist a gentle squeeze and steered him back toward the hallway.

When they reached Jack's room, Rossi went through drawers, assembling a little boy's outfit. He glanced at Hotch. "Why don't you go wash up? There's a big casserole from Garcia labeled 'breakfast #2.' Looks like something with eggs, potatoes, ham, cheese…all kinds of good things for hungry boys." Rossi ruffled Jack's damp hair and handed him a pair of briefs. He recalled how important it was at the age of four to be allowed the dignity of dressing oneself. He also recalled how easy it was to get things reversed or inside-out, so he kept an eye on the proceedings. "Go on, Hotch. Just don't get dressed to go out. You're housebound for the next few days."

Hotch sighed and went back to his own room. He decided jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't draw criticism, but would make him feel less like an invalid. He took them to the bathroom and showered, watching the remains of Jack's bubble bath wash down the drain.

Feeling much more human after shaving and showering and shedding his robe, Hotch sat down to breakfast with Rossi and Jack. Rossi had left two pills and the bottle of cough medicine next to Hotch's plate. Jack watched as he obediently took everything, but he could sense his daddy wasn't happy about it. Rossi served each of them something mostly egg-yellow that smelled delicious and everyone dug in.

Between bites, Rossi watch the two Hotchners. He sensed what was coming next and wished he could spare Aaron, but some things just had to be done father-to-son.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fi…" Hotch looked up at his son's face and stopped mid-sentence. He saw concern and fear and it stabbed at him worse than any of the wounds Foyet had inflicted. This was not a time for false reassurances. He put his fork down and gave his full attention to Jack. "I'm sick, but you saw me take the medicine Uncle Dave put out for me, didn't you?" Jack nodded, eyes solemn. "The medicine will make me all better, so don't worry about me, okay?"

Jack's anxious expression remained. "Are you going to go away like Mommy?"

Rossi felt his vision blur, but he kept the tears from spilling. Hotch blinked a few times and then lowered his head so his and Jacks' eyes were on the same level, brown staring into brown.

"No. I am not going to go away like Mommy." Hotch took as deep a breath as he could and slowly released it. "Jack, someday a long, long, _long_ time from now, you and Mommy and I will all be together again. But until then you need to know that Mommy's watching over us."

"What does that mean, Daddy?"

"That means that Mommy's closer to the angels now, so they can hear her better. And they can see her heart more clearly and all the love that's in it. So they'll take extra special care of her, because…" Hotch's voice caught as he heard the echo of Haley's last words before Foyet killed her. "…because love's the most important thing."

Jack's small hand reached across the countertop and Hotch was quick to grasp it. "It's hard to understand, Jack. It's even hard when you're all grown up like me. But the one thing I know for certain and for always is that love like Mommy's doesn't just go away. It's still here."

"I know, Daddy. It's like a hug that never stops."

"Yes." Hotch said, keeping his voice steady. "It's like a hug that never stops."


	14. A Sea Change Begins

Hotch had a hard time finishing his breakfast. Jack's simple, childish explanation of how Haley's presence could still be in their lives had made him proud, but it also knotted his stomach. During the last few days his son had had too much time to himself. Hotch knew firsthand how thinking could metamorphose into brooding under those circumstances. While he and Rossi cleaned up, Jack retreated to the corner Hotch had stocked with age-appropriate games and picture books.

"It's not fair a little kid should have to think about things like hugs from the dead." Hotch kept glancing over at his son engaged in quiet, solitary play.

Rossi dried his hands and placed one on the back of Hotch's neck, gently massaging for a moment. "It's not fair a little kid should be beaten and have to protect his mother and his little brother, either." He folded the dish towel and draped it over a drawer handle. "Jack needs to get back to a regular routine so he knows that whatever tragedy happens, life goes on."

"So do I."

"You're sick and hurt. _Your_ routine is being decided for you as we speak."

Hotch looked wary and then downright suspicious when there was a soft tapping at the door. Rossi raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, indicating Hotch should answer it himself.

Apprehension vanished when he opened the door to find J.J., smiling up at him, a slim briefcase clutched in one hand.

With the casual ease that made her friendship so natural, she reached up, gave his cheek a little pat, dropped her hand to his shoulder, turned him around and propelled him back into the apartment.

When Jack saw her, he abandoned his play area. Since his father had been absent so often, Jack had normally been surrounded by women. Although he loved being with Daddy, he felt the void where a feminine presence should have been.

"Miss Jarreau!" Jack raced toward her.

"Hi, Jack!" J.J. scooped him up in one arm and sat him on her hip. This was clearly a mother, a woman who knew how to juggle children and distribute affection with one hand and without missing a beat. "How's my boy?"

"Daddy's sick." Hotch looked nonplussed, but he remained silent; he couldn't deny it. J.J. glanced at him from under her lashes before returning her attention to Jack.

"Yeah, that happens sometimes. He needs rest and medicine and lots and lots of love. We can handle that, right?"

"Yeah!" Jack launched himself off J.J.'s hip, reaching toward his father. Hotch caught him and lifted him up, seating him in the crook of one arm. J.J. took her time looking Hotch up and down.

"You look a little better."

"Thanks. I feel better." Hotch was painfully aware that Jack was listening to every word. He could have been lying on the floor gasping out his last and he would still have declared how much better he was for his son's sake. He could tell by J.J.'s complicit smile that she understood. So did Rossi. He came to Hotch's side and took the boy.

"I think it's a nice day to go play outside. Okay if Jack and I go do some stuff?"

"Where are you going?" For the last two days Hotch had felt as though he were being manipulated. Today he got the feeling that everything was pre-planned and he was stepping into the middle of machinery already in motion.

"Well, I need to stop by work for a few minutes…and then we might go play in the park…and then, if it's okay with Daddy, we might get some ice cream." He looked inquiringly at Hotch. "_Is_ it okay with Daddy?"

"Sure." Hotch stepped in and kissed Jack. "Have fun, but mind what Uncle Dave says, got it?"

"Got it!" The eager look on the child's face reminded Hotch how little fun there had been in both their lives lately.

After a flurry of last minute bathroom breaks, donning of jackets, and gathering of toys that would serve well in a park setting, Rossi and Jack departed for their day of play. Hotch looked wistful as he watched them go down the hall toward the street entrance. J.J. pulled him back into the apartment and closed the door.

"We have some things to go over before Reid gets here." She looked at the ultra sound machine and decided to ignore any concerns she shared with Prentiss about letting the young doctor practice on their boss.

"J.J., am I being tag-teamed?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. I'm never alone. Rossi doesn't leave until you arrive. Reid will probably relieve _you_, and I'm betting that no matter what I say, either Rossi or Morgan will show up when Reid leaves and one of them'll be here all night. _Is_ this a tag-team thing?"

"Yes. Leave it alone, Hotch. You have no choice and it's for the best." Hotch gave her a dubious look.

"Shouldn't you guys be working?"

J.J. hesitated while she gave him another long, searching look. He saw her reach a decision.

"That's why Rossi's going in this morning. He's meeting with Strauss about a few changes that'll help us look after you." Hotch's face drained. "_Temporary_ changes, Hotch." He looked…aghast. "Only for a couple of weeks." He seemed to sink in on himself, almost to cringe. "Hotch, it's no big deal!"

But Hotch knew that when Strauss got involved, _everything_ was a big deal. Especially when it concerned her least favorite member of the Bureau. He knew she resented his upwardly mobile path because he was younger, better at his job than anyone expected, and male. Strauss was part of the generation that had fought hard to make inroads into the traditionally all-male Bureau. She was hyper-aware of younger men whose progress might eclipse her own. Hotch had no desire to be in direct competition with _anyone_. All he wanted was to climb as far as his natural abilities allowed, and he was willing to put in all the hard work and sacrifice necessary.

He groaned inwardly. It was all part of the feminine world Prentiss had admitted to. Girls _didn't_ play fair. They knew subversive ways to achieve their goals that men like Hotch couldn't fight. Because men like Hotch couldn't anticipate the tactics that seemed to come naturally to such women. Or at least came naturally to a certain subset of them. Or maybe all of them. Hotch wasn't sure anymore.

But then, there was the flip side of the coin. Women like J.J. who were by no means politically naïve, but who were secure enough and kind enough to take pity on men like Hotch when they found themselves someplace confusing and alien…like the land of women. Even now, she put a consoling hand on his arm and he wanted to believe her when she told him not to worry.

"Everything'll be fine, Hotch." She moved him toward the kitchen counter and took a seat on one of the bar stools, indicating he should take another. "Meanwhile, even though you can't go out, I brought you something."

She set the briefcase down and flipped its latches open. Inside was a stack of booklets sporting photos of bright interiors and landscaped courtyards.

"You need to find a different place to live. One where both you and Jack can be comfortable." She spread the publications out on the counter top and he noticed post-its sticking out at various angles; pages J.J. had found worthy of special consideration.

"I marked places that are in good school districts, and won't involve a long commute to the Bureau. The best ones…" she paged through a particularly thick book, "…are here. The rent's reasonable and the facilities have some good recreational features like a pool and gym equipment. And…where is that one?...ummmm…here!…" She triumphantly slapped it down in front of Hotch, page open to a sunny, happy garden seen through an ornate iron fence. "_This_ one is a gated community with some of the best security on the market."

Hotch looked from the literature before him to J.J.'s expectant face. When he didn't say anything, she looked concerned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." He continued to gaze at her. "It's just I never expected…I …I mean…" Hotch stopped talking and held J.J.'s eyes with his own. "Thank you."

Her full-blown smile returned. "Hotch, you're always so surprised when people do things for you." He still looked mystified.

J.J. laughed. "Who was it who cleaned Elle's apartment after she got shot? Who does things like sends Garcia flowers for a job well-done? Who drops everything and turns the whole team around when something bad happens to one of us or someone we love? For God's sake, Hotch, you drove me to the hospital when I had Henry!" She thought he looked…_vulnerable_. As though his kindnesses were supposed to be deep secrets and now he'd been discovered.

"I just don't expect things like this."

"It's okay not to expect them, but you shouldn't be so surprised when they happen. Just be grateful."

"I am. More than you know."

"And just so we're clear on this: we aren't doing this because we feel we owe you. We're doing it because of who you are."

"Because I'm your boss?"

"Because you're a _nice guy_." J.J. resumed paging through the apartment rental booklets. "God, Hotch, it's like when you were created this big hand came down and erased a whole section, left a big blank behind. You've got a great big blind spot where other people have a mirror."

Hotch considered the statement for a moment. When he was growing up, a really big hand _had_ come down on him. Over and over. He'd told Rossi and Morgan that he didn't feel anything, but he was starting to get a little angry. He'd be damned if he was going to let that hand have a part in forming the life he gave his own son. The first step was making a good home. He'd find someplace light and open where Jack could have friends and fill the place up with laughter and good childhood memories. And he'd take all the help he could get.

Hotch scooted closer to the literature J.J. had brought. Together they began making lists of apartment complexes she would visit with him, giving him the benefit of a motherly viewpoint, once he was judged healthy enough for normal activity.

Without knowing it was happening, Hotch began to heal on a much deeper level than any virus or knife could ever penetrate.


	15. The Enemy Within

Erin Strauss watched David Rossi and the Hotchner child walk away, off to enjoy themselves on a sunny day with play and ice cream. She smiled. Rossi always underestimated her.

Of _course_ she'd let the team rearrange priorities for their leader's sake. Of _course_ they could be given the lion's share of cases that would keep them close to home for the next three weeks. Of _course_ she'd assign other teams as often as possible and let them sit on the bench as much as she could.

And none of them would know that it was a lovely, little piece of ammunition she would add to the stockpile; a beautiful, sleek bullet with Aaron Hotchner's name on it.

Strauss was a duplicitous creature. She was a collection of conflicts, contradictions, and confusions. But above all, she was proactive when it came to defending her position in the Bureau. She had stopped delving into her own motives years ago. Self-analysis distracted her from the one goal she had always worshipped: survival.

She watched the child skip with joy and told herself that what she wanted would be the best thing for the boy. Surely he'd like to have his daddy around more, working a desk job that would get him home at a reasonable hour and wouldn't put him in dangerous situations. Yes, she would be doing the Hotchner family, what was left of it, a tremendous favor if she removed Aaron from his beloved BAU.

She didn't understand how he'd attained his supervisory position in the first place. Every time she talked to him, she felt as though she were screaming into a void, a vacuum. She would aim her venomous, sly arrows at him and there would be no return fire. When she expected to be answered with treachery and political maneuvering, she found only a blank kind of goodness, a bone-deep sense of honor and nobility. How could such a guileless man hope to survive in the snake pit environment she knew the Bureau to be? The _world_ to be?

It baffled Strauss that Hotch's team was so loyal and that so many people spoke of him with affection. She saw his rise as an affront to her own difficult struggle.

She had three children. She had paid dearly for each one in the professional arena. Who knew how many opportunities she had missed during the course of three maternity leaves? It galled her that Aaron hadn't missed a single day while on the road to parenthood.

She resented that he was tall and good-looking. No matter what anyone said, she _knew_ that physical attractiveness played a part in achieving success.

She resented that his name sounded so much like her own. She hated that she would always turn when someone shouted 'Aaron,' because she'd thought they'd said 'Erin.' And her name was never called out the same way as his. His was said with tones of pleasant expectation. Hers was said with trepidation.

The man was a big, sentimental sap, in her opinion. She knew he was covering up things to protect his team. She knew, if discovered, he would willingly sacrifice himself on their behalf. He had secrets, but they were the kind she didn't understand and didn't respect. They were secrets for the sake of others, not for his own benefit.

What would the Bureau be if such a man were allowed to rise any higher? Strauss gave a contemptuous sniff. It wouldn't be a place where she and her proven tactics could prosper. It wouldn't be a conniving, plot-ridden, political smelter that melted the weak and discarded them in a slag heap, but tempered and strengthened the strong. It wouldn't be a place where she fit in anymore. After a lifetime of strategizing and in-fighting, there were so few places where she _did_ belong.

Strauss was oblivious to the real tragedy: that she wasn't a bad person; it was just that the fires that forged her were different from the flames that had created Hotch. She did love children and she even appreciated handsome Aaron, but those were traits buried so deep there was no hope they could ever be excavated.

Erin Strauss smiled at the retreating man and child. David Rossi always underestimated her.

What little of Aaron Hotchner that wasn't wounded or sick would have to be kicked to the curb. And she had always worn very tough, very sensible shoes. Made for kicking.

At precisely noon, J.J.'s watch buzzed. She silenced the alarm and pushed away the rental literature she and Hotch had been browsing.

"Where's your medicine?"

"Huh?" He was noticeably slower at shifting gears and making connections since they'd been medicating him.

"It's drug-time, Hotch. Are they in the bathroom?"

"I…I don't know." He watched J.J. discover the bottle of cough suppressant. "Maybe we could decrease the dosage a little?"

"Nope." She marched down the hall and returned with three amber-colored prescription bottles. "You're not thinking clearly, so I'll pretend you never said that."

He puffed out a small breath of aggravation. "I know I'm not thinking clearly. I hate it. Maybe just a little longer _between_ pills?" There wasn't much hope in his voice. He knew he was dealing with a mother.

J.J. was reading labels and extracting pills from beneath child-proof caps. "Nope. Your body needs care. Body first, mind later. There's more to you than 'thinking clearly,' Hotch."

"Not much," he mumbled, his foggy brain miscalculating the volume of a statement he'd meant to be private.

"Ohhhhh, I don't know." J.J. permitted herself a little grin at her boss' expense. "Prentiss says you have a really nice tummy." The look on Hotch's face was worth the breach of propriety. "Besides, if you take these now, you'll be less likely to feel any pain when Reid's working on you."

Hotch resigned himself to his fate and swallowed the pills along with the cough medicine. It wasn't until later that he realized J.J. had slipped him an extra; one of the painkillers that he'd avoided so far.

"Now, let's see what Garcia has on the menu for lunch."

A couple of hours and a bowl of beef stew later, sharp rapping at the door announced Reid's arrival.

He bounded in and beelined his way over to the ultra sound machine.

"This is gonna be great, Hotch! I've been researching since yesterday. You ready?"

"Jeez, Reid, maybe you should talk to him first. You know, see how he's doing; let him know how it's supposed to feel and maybe give him a chance to tell you he wants a professional to do this?" J.J.'s doubts were increasing in direct proportion to Reid's enthusiasm.

"Oh, sorry." Reid crossed over to where Hotch was still paging through rental magazines. He knelt down and looked at the Unit Chief's somewhat dilated eyes. "J.J., how medicated is he?"

"I gave him one dose of each. He's fine. Just a little…spaced out."

"Hotch? How are you feeling?"

"Kinda tired."

"That's okay. You get to lie down now." Reid looked over his shoulder, becoming aware that there wasn't anyplace convenient to the ultra sound for Hotch to stretch out. "Huh." He appraised the bulky weight of the unit and decided he and J.J. couldn't move it into the bedroom, and Hotch shouldn't be allowed to lift or strain with rib injuries.

Under J.J.'s disapproving eye, he raided both Jack's and Hotch's beds, taking the pillows and making a cushioned area on the floor alongside the hulking machine.

"Come on, Hotch." Reid guided his increasingly groggy leader to the makeshift bed and helped him down. After a moment's consideration, he had him sit up again so he could slip his shirt off. As the scars and bruises were revealed, Reid's eyes met J.J.'s in sympathy for the terror and pain their friend must have felt.

Reid plugged in the ultra sound unit and flipped the 'on' switch. The machine rumbled and whined before settling into a low, steady buzz. J.J. moved her seat further away.

"Reid, are you _sure_ you know what you're doing?"

"Absolutely. I won't hurt him. Stop looking at me like that."

Meanwhile, Hotch closed his eyes, gave a deep sigh and let himself go limp. It was a reaction to medication, not a demonstration of trust in either Reid or the humming machine.

Reid chose what looked like a cross between a universal remote and a large, flattened nozzle, plugged it into a thick cord attached to the unit and proceeded to coat the end of it with a gel-like substance. He twisted dials and selected settings. When he was satisfied, he sat on the floor beside Hotch and leaned over him.

"Here we go, Hotch. It'll feel cold at first, but it'll warm up fast. Tell me if anything hurts." Reid licked his lips, the first sign J.J. had seen that bespoke any worry concerning what he was about to do.

For his part, Hotch didn't seem worried about anything. His eyes remained closed and his only response was a sleepy "Uh huh."

Reid pushed a button and touched the nozzle to Hotch's skin just below the injured ribs. Slowly, he moved it in ever-widening circles until the entire bruised area was covered with a thin film of gel.

"Tell me if I'm pressing too hard, Hotch."

"Uh huh."

J.J. smiled. "And you thought I over-medicated him…"

For the next half hour, Reid traced the same pattern repeatedly, sending sound waves into Hotch's body that he hoped would stimulate the healing process.

J.J. eventually decided the machine wouldn't attack and moved closer to get a better view. Hotch's only reaction was for his lips to part slightly and for his breathing to deepen.

When Reid was finished, he switched off the power and asked J.J. to hand him a dishtowel. He carefully wiped gel from Hotch's ribs.

"He's asleep again," J.J. said.

"Yeah, well…that's normal. It's partly that he's sick; partly that he's not used to drugs and all of a sudden he's on a whole cocktail of them; and sleeping a lot is part of the grieving process. It lets the mind cope with emotional pain on a deeper level."

After a few more minutes. "You did it, Reid. The ultra sound. I didn't think you could."

Reid smiled. "Oh ye of little faith…"

"And you know something else?" J.J. tilted her head, observing her boss from a new angle.

"What?"

"Prentiss is right. He does have a nice tummy."

J.J. couldn't tell if the noise Reid made in response was choking or snorting.


	16. The Spider Begins to Spin

Strauss set down her phone and leaned back in her chair. What a delicious day it was turning out to be!

Soon after David Rossi had apprised her of Agent Hotchner's condition, she had made two thoroughly enjoyable phone calls. The first was to the hospital where they'd had Aaron's pneumonia diagnosed and his injuries analyzed. The second was to the Bureau's Director, requesting an appointment at his convenience to discuss some problems that had come to light with one of his favorite agents.

Strauss grimaced. It hadn't been lost on her that the Director seemed to like Hotch. More than he liked Strauss. Way more.

Incomprehensible.

Insupportable.

It was all part of that 'Good Ol' Boys' network that she knew would always be part of the Bureau no matter how much they paid lip service to Equal Employment Opportunity. Strauss knew better.

She knew some other things, too. She knew that an agent who crumbled under pressure needed to be downgraded to a position more suitable to his delicate temperament. Granted, the circumstances in Agent Hotchner's case were unique and extreme. But that was no excuse. Clearly, the man was falling apart. Clearly, he needed to be shunted downward for his own good.

Strauss had ordered copies of the medical reports, using her position to circumvent the usual lengthy process involving release forms or subpoenas. They should be e-mailed to her within the hour. She would dissect them word by word, deciding how best to present their findings to the Director. It must look as though Strauss was merely concerned for her colleague's welfare. She must be perceived as a friendly force.

Strauss' smile grew wider.

Lord knows, a lot of good men had fallen to friendly fire. Aaron wouldn't be the first, nor the last. Just another casualty of workplace politics that he was ill-equipped to handle.

Strauss opened her e-mail and maximized the window where new messages appeared. She pulled some paperwork closer and returned to her routine tasks, casting a glance at the in-box on her monitor ever few minutes. She wanted to know the second any message with attachments arrived from St. Sebastian Hospital.

Reid had wiped down and tidied away the ultra sound equipment. Now he was sitting on a bar stool next to J.J. They were watching Hotch as he slept.

"Spence, do you think we should wake him up?"

"Nah. The more rest he gets, the better."

"But what if Rossi and Jack get back?"

Reid gave her a questioning look. "We'll just tell them to be quiet."

"No, I mean what if Jack walks in and sees his daddy unconscious on the floor?" J.J. could see Reid wasn't quite connecting to the parental viewpoint she held. "After what they've been through, don't you think that might be a bad image to confront a little kid when he walks through the door?"

"Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Okay, let's get him up."

Reid crouched down beside his boss and placed a hand on his shoulder. But before he could shake him, Hotch's breathing caught and he was catapulted awake by a bout of coughing. He turned on his side and curled into himself, gasping between spasms. Reid pulled him to a sitting position and held him steady while J.J. sprinted around the counter to the kitchen sink. She filled a glass with water and joined Reid, squatting on the floor by Hotch's side.

"Drink. Small sips," she commanded.

After a few attempts, Hotch's coughing eased. He braced himself with one hand on the floor, the other holding the glass. J.J. looked over Hotch's head at Reid.

"He took the suppressant. Why didn't it work?"

"I think it's because he was lying flat. I should have propped him up a little when we were done. Sorry, Hotch."

"'S okay." He handed the water back to J.J. and moved to get up. Reid took his arm and helped him stand.

"The ultra sound went well." Reid deposited the Unit Chief in the one, big chair in the living room. Retrieving Hotch's shirt from the floor, Reid helped him slip into it. "It'll probably be a couple of weeks before you feel the effects, but it's something we should continue on a daily basis."

Hotch nodded, his breathing back to what currently passed for normal depth and rhythm. "Thanks, Reid. I really don't want to be a daily obligation, though."

"Are you kidding? When else am I going to get the chance to, well…, play doctor?" It would take more than a coughing fit to dampen Reid's enthusiasm for the pursuit of new knowledge. "As long as the team's local, I'll be here every day. Maybe not at the same _time_ every day, but…"

"What do you mean 'as long as the team's local'?" Hotch interrupted, glancing from agent to agent, catching J.J. as she shook her head and tried to quiet Reid with a gesture.

Reid didn't see any avenue of escape. An answer was required. "Just some temporary changes 'til you're better." Hotch's expression traveled from mild apprehension to brow-furrowing worry. He turned his attention to J.J.

"The Strauss thing? What Rossi was going to talk to her about?"

J.J. came to his side, put the glass of water back in his hand and sat on an arm of the chair. She gave his shoulders a one-armed hug. Her calm, smooth voice belied his concerns. "Hotch, what's the worst that could happen?" When he didn't reply, she answered for him. "She'll say 'no.' That's all."

Hotch didn't know how to tell them what a bad feeling he had when it came to anything involving Strauss. He didn't know when or from what direction the blow would come, but he was absolutely sure that the worst she could do was a lot more than saying 'no.'

It was late afternoon when Rossi and Jack returned. Reid had put back the pillows he'd pilfered from the bedrooms and there was no sign that any medical treatment had been performed.

"Daddy!" Jack climbed into his father's arms, giving him a sticky hug redolent of sugary treats supplied by Uncle Dave. Hotch's heart suffered a small pang of regret that he couldn't have accompanied them and that a simple day's outing had become so spectacularly special in his son's life. It was an indication of how little fun attended Jack's childhood. Hotch vowed that he would make it up to him. Regularly and often. Once he was well. Once they had moved to a happier home. Once he stopped worrying about anything Strauss might be planning.

He was anxious to question Rossi about any discussion he'd had, but he didn't want to appear ungrateful or, worse, paranoid. He kept his voice and demeanor casual.

"So you stopped by work?"

Rossi nodded.

"And?"

"And for the next three weeks the team will pretty much be confined to Quantico." Rossi smiled. He could read Hotch even when the man thought he was doing a masterful job concealing his thoughts. "She didn't argue or even question very much, Aaron. I think she was genuinely concerned with your health and getting you back on your feet as soon as possible."

"See?" J.J. said, feeling vindicated. Rising from her seat on the chair's arm, she ruffled Hotch's hair and swung Jack into her arms, heading for the kitchen and a damp towel to wipe the remains of chocolate ice cream from his face.

"Is Daddy okay?" Jack had felt his father's body stiffen at Uncle Dave's words. He wasn't sure why, but his father didn't seem as happy as everyone else did.

"Your daddy's fine." J.J. sat Jack beside the sink and ran some water onto a dish towel. "It's just sometimes daddies can be big sillies. You know?" She placed the folded towel against Jack's face and gently wrestled his nose until he was laughing. "You know? Huh?"

"Yeah," Jack sputtered. "Daddies can be big sillies."

Strauss opened her latest e-mail and accessed its attachments. She drew her chair closer to the monitor and began reading the notes Dr. Zwerling had written regarding her appointment with Aaron Hotchner.

The deeper she got into the report, the wider her grin.

Really, it had turned out to be a deliciously wonderful day.

And she had an appointment for the next afternoon with the Director. So tomorrow might be even better. Strauss sighed happily. If everything went as planned, there would be _lots_ of marvelous, Hotchner-free days in her future.


	17. Two Can Keep a Secret

Erin Strauss pushed back from her desk, pursed her lips and considered her next move.

The doctor's report on Aaron Hotchner was a goldmine. Except for the part that was headed 'Prognosis.' That section was entirely too optimistic. Something would have to be done about it before her meeting with the Director. She eyed the offending paragraph for the third time since receiving it.

'Patient is somewhat undernourished and suffering from exhaustion exacerbated by gradual onset bacterial pneumonia in the left lung. He admits to making misleading statements during previous hospitalization regarding level of pain and general well-being. He is now willing to undergo therapy to minimize the effects of his previous injuries. Additional re-injury has resulted in severe muscle spasm and bone fragmentation. Ultra sound therapy recommended. Medications prescribed to address pain, muscle spasm, pneumonia. Additionally, patient seems depressed. Anti-depressant contraindicated at this time. SPECIAL NOTE: the re-injury occurred during an altercation that resulted in the death of patient's ex-wife. Time to mourn should be given before depression is judged clinical. Mental aspect should also improve along with physical state. Recommend follow-up visit in two to three weeks, sooner if condition worsens. Patient should make full recovery with the exception of weakened rib structure.'

Strauss ran one fingernail across the printed lines on the screen. She missed the days when hard copy was the standard for communiqués. The digital age made things more difficult to tailor to one's tastes. _Difficult, but not impossible_. Her smug expression bordered on a sneer. She would have to be careful, but this should be one battle in which she scored a decisive victory.

She allowed herself a moment to wax nostalgic. It was so much easier to alter paper documents than encrypted files. She could do all the work herself with no one the wiser. Now, she would have to involve someone from the IT department. She moved her mouse over the medical report once more. She'd tried all manner of double-clicking, of saving the file using different applications, of renaming it. But the hospital wasn't taking any chances with their records. There was no way she could change…well, _tweak_…this one unless she could unlock it and render it subject to revision.

She thought about printing it out and doing some custom work on the hard copy, but then she would have to destroy the original file to cover her tracks and there was always the chance that someone would ask for the original digital version. And it would be so much more _creditable_ if she could e-mail Agent Hotchner's medical evaluation to the Director before their meeting, instead of marching in and handing him a sheaf of papers. E-mailing an electronic file had a validityabout it that would be important in convincing the Director that poor, battered Aaron wasn't upwardly mobile any more.

Strauss picked up her phone and dialed the number for IT. She was careful to select a division that was not connected to the BAU. The last thing she wanted was for that hideous Garcia woman to get wind of anything with Hotchner's name on it. Still, when a man answered she breathed a little easier, confident that she'd be able to handle someone of inferior rank who wasn't directly involved with the profilers in the little drama she was about to produce.

At Hotch's apartment, things were winding down for the day.

Jack was taking a late nap, his sugar high having worn off. Hotch was still feeling the effects of prescribed medication as he lounged, utterly relaxed, watching Rossi putter around the kitchen, preparing dinner. J.J. stood behind Hotch's chair, giving him a companionable shoulder rub and listening to Reid share some of what he considered the more fascinating facts he'd uncovered during his foray into the history of ultra sound technology.

"Some researchers have compared it to a cat's purr." He thought that was a tantalizing opening.

J.J. looked skeptical. "A cat's purr? Come on, Spence. How can a happy cat have anything to do with _that_?" She pointed with her chin at the machine hulking in the middle of the room.

It was the opening Reid had hoped for.

"Studies of cats have revealed that the purr mechanism isn't just an indicator of contentment. Cats purr when they're injured, too. They've actually managed to measure the rate at which a purring cat's wounds heal, as compared to a cat who doesn't purr."

"Oh, God." J.J. didn't want to think about a lab environment where a cat wasn't allowed to purr.

"No, it's all good. They didn't harm the animals, I swear. But the cats that purred healed at a quantifiably faster rate than the non-purr control group." Reid waited for questions. When J.J. continued to look unconvinced and Hotch's eyebrows drew closer together, he put the finishing touch on his lecture. "The vibration that the purr mechanism delivered to the injured area is very similar to that accomplished with ultra sound. It set up a sort of sympathetic resonance in surrounding bone and tissue conducive to healing." Reid looked triumphant. He believed that everyone would share his fascination with obscure areas of research if they only knew how it applied to their own daily lives.

"So…we could have brought Hotch a cat and let him hold it against his ribs while it purred?" Hotch looked up at J.J.'s Mona Lisa smile as she stood over him. Reid enjoyed research. J.J. enjoyed teasing him about it. She squeezed Hotch's shoulders to reassure him she was only being playful.

"Wha…?…NO!" Reid crossed his arms, nonplussed about J.J. drawing such an erroneous conclusion.

"Relax, Spence. I'm just kidding." Reid didn't look convinced. He retreated to the kitchen to sulk and to watch Rossi plating a large chicken pot pie.

"Dinner's almost ready, kids." Rossi set out silverware and napkins. "J.J., it's time to drug Hotch. Could you do the honors?"

Hotch groaned as J.J. went to gather the various medications that kept him feeling so leaden and drowsy. He pushed himself up from the chair and headed for the kitchen. At least he could take a seat at the counter and prevent them from waiting on him during the meal. He wasn't hungry, but he wanted to avoid the looks they gave him if he demonstrated a poor appetite.

Once again, a home-cooked feast had been provided. Hotch's weary synapses clicked and he remembered he'd meant to do something earlier.

"Back in a minute, Dave." He went in search of his cell phone. He hadn't used it in days. It took a minute to locate it on the nightstand by his bed. He sat on the bed, powered up, and pressed a button assigned to speed dial a team member. The call was picked up on the second ring.

"Garcia?" Hotch couldn't help smiling. He'd taken some heat when he'd hired this flamboyant creature as the team's technical analyst. He'd stood up for her and shielded her from outside criticism. He had followed his gut instinct and his gut had seldom been more right. Hotch had always tried to keep his appearance sedate, serious, somber. Secretly, he admired the way Garcia presented herself to the world without excuse or apology.

"Sir? Oh, is it you?" The delight and warmth in her voice had a direct line to his heart.

"It's me. I wanted to thank you for everything. I don't think I've ever eaten better or so much. You really didn't have to go to so much trouble." Silence. "But I'm glad you did. Thank you, Penelope."

"Oh, sir, I love cooking, and you're, well, if you don't mind my saying so, you're so thin and, well, it's just something I could do, and…"

"I love it. Everyone does." Hotch interrupted, knowing Garcia would continue on in one interminable sentence if he didn't.

"Well, I'll be coming by tomorrow, just so you know, so I can pick up the empties and bring you and Jack and, well, whoever, some more…"

"It'd be nice to see you, but you don't have to bring anything. Really."

"But, sir…it's what I do."

Hotch's smile reached his eyes. "I'm glad. It'll be nice to see you and thank you in person." He thought she might, _might_, be crying. "Good night, Garcia."

"Good night, sir."

He disconnected and set the phone back on the nightstand. As he was heading toward the door, it occurred to him that every team member's phone was programmed like his. They were all available to each other with one keystroke, one number. _Curious_, he thought. _The other night Prentiss had to press an awful lot of buttons to call Morgan_. By the time Hotch reached the kitchen and the medicine line-up J.J. had prepared, even his delayed thought processes realized Prentiss had tricked him. Girls played dirty. There was no doubt about it.

Kevin Lynch hung up the phone and stared at the e-mail Strauss had just sent him. The subject line simply said 'urgent confidential.' He handled sensitive messages and data every day. He would never question her request that he unlock the attachment and return it to her. But the fact that she had called and had emphasized he was under no circumstances to make a file copy, and he was to destroy the original message once he'd rendered it accessible to her, was unusual. Still, Strauss was his superior and he was duty-bound to follow instructions to the letter.

It wasn't until he opened the attachment and saw Aaron Hotchner's name at the top of the page that he became curious. Penelope had asked him to hack medical records for her boss just a couple of days ago. Kevin chewed on his lip and frowned at his monitor. He didn't know if this was related, but it was an odd coincidence if it wasn't. Strauss hadn't said anything about keeping this file secret from other IT staff. Kevin knew that if unlocking the document required someone else's expertise, he wouldn't hesitate to bring them in. That was standard procedure.

But deep in his bones he knew that Strauss wanted this kept between the two of them. And he really didn't _need_ help unlocking this. Kevin began running a program that would allow anyone to add or delete information from what appeared to be hospital records.

Strange that it was about Aaron Hotchner, though, after Penelope's request.

Kevin shrugged. It really wasn't any of his business.


	18. Looking Toward Tomorrow

Rossi placed a plate of steaming chicken pot pie before each team member. Reid lost no time falling upon the repast. J.J. was still hovering over Hotch, arguing with him about taking the last of three pills. Hotch didn't want the painkiller.

"It says 'as needed' on the label," he protested. "I don't _need_ it." J.J. narrowed her eyes at him. She'd seen the bruises when Reid had performed the ultra sound treatment. She'd heard the ragged coughing fit Hotch had endured just a couple of hours ago. And she'd felt his occasional flinch when she touched the pathetic prominence of his bones while giving him a shoulder rub. Combine it all and how could the man _not_ be in pain?

Rossi decided to end the debate in order to ensure that the meal provided by Garcia was enjoyed while hot.

"Enough! J.J., he'll take the pill at bedtime. It'll help him sleep better." Hotch looked triumphant. J.J. looked doubtful. "Now eat…both of you." He watched them back away from each other and turn to their plates. He sighed inwardly when he realized Hotch was only going through the motions; still not really enjoying food. _At least he's trying. Maybe the medicine affects his appetite. Maybe we should let him ease up on some of it_.

A few forkfuls into the meal, there was a rap at the door. Before anyone could answer it, they heard Morgan's voice calling. "Hey! Yo! Anybody home?"

Reid opened the door and Morgan entered only to hear J.J. shushing him.

"Jack's asleep. Keep it down."

"Sorry." Morgan rubbed his hands together. "Just in time for dinner. Perfect!"

Rossi prepared a plate from Garcia's ample supply and handed it to Morgan. For a few minutes silence reigned except for the sounds of chewing and clinking silverware. When Morgan came up for air, he gave Hotch an appraising once over.

"How're you feeling, man?"

"Good." Hotch nodded, but didn't make more than cursory eye contact.

Morgan turned to the others "How's he doing _really_?"

"I gave him his first ultra sound." Reid spoke between mouthfuls. "It'll be a while before he feels the effect, though."

"He won't take all of his medicine…yet." J.J. was determined to win the painkiller battle before the evening ended.

"He'll be fine. He just needs time" Rossi wiped his mouth and looked up at the others. "And we'll be able to keep him on track. I talked to Strauss this morning."

Hotch swallowed and put down his fork, abandoning all pretense of enjoying the meal. Three other sets of eyes locked onto Rossi, waiting for him to elaborate.

"It's no big deal. She's going to let us sit out as much as possible. When we _do _get cases, she'll try to keep us close to home." Rossi looked up. The eyes he noticed most were Hotch's. He was used to seeing sorrow in their depths, but now he was almost certain that he saw fear.

"Aaron, stop. Considering what you're going through, I think Strauss is calling a truce." The eyes still looked troubled. "You're no threat to her. She has nothing to gain by hurting you right now. In fact, you have the sympathy vote of the whole Bureau. She'd be a fool to try to undermine you. She'd come off looking like a monster."

Hotch looked down at his plate, but didn't resume eating. Rossi gave an exasperated shake of his head.

"Fine. Don't believe me. Just eat. You should have a full stomach when J.J. gives you that painkiller."

J.J. raised one eloquent eyebrow at Hotch. _I win, boss_.

Kevin Lynch wasn't exactly snooping. He told himself he was just making sure that when he returned the document that had been e-mailed under subject heading 'urgent confidential' to Strauss, she would be able to access and edit every page. Despite working for a government entity that specialized in secrecy and subterfuge, Kevin was a trusting soul. It was part of what he had in common with Penelope. Unfortunately, although he didn't know it, he also shared Hotch's inability to predict feminine strategies.

He hadn't talked to Penelope since passing on the hacked information concerning Hotch's bid for freedom before x-rays could be taken on that terrible day Haley Hotchner had been killed. He had no idea what had been done with the information, but, looking through the report from Strauss he was glad to read that Agent Hotchner had finally been evaluated. He was also pleased to read that, given time, he should recover almost fully.

Kevin smiled. He liked Penelope's boss. Hotch could have vetoed their budding romance, but he'd gone to bat for them against all the rules and regulations and penalties for fraternization. The man looked stern, but Kevin suspected there was a soft core inside the hard, gaunt exterior. Penelope would be happy to hear that the prognosis for Hotch was excellent.

Kevin stretched and grinned a little wider. He'd enjoy giving her the good news.

He yawned, glanced up at the wall clock that told him his shift was over and decided it had been a good day. He closed the hospital report, now fully accessible, and sent it back to Strauss' inbox. She was gone for the day, but it would be waiting for her first thing when she arrived in the morning.

Kevin closed down his computer and prepared to go home. It was late. Tomorrow would be soon enough to call Penelope and congratulate her on her boss' recovery prospects. Kevin liked giving people good news.

It would be something to look forward to.

Hotch was kneeling beside Jack's bed again, stroking his downy cheek and inhaling his scent. J.J. and Rossi had left for the night. Morgan and Reid remained, watching their leader bond with his sleeping child and confirming Hotch's assertion that he was being tag-teamed. There would always be someone nearby, just in case. He was starting to like it, even if such care and dedication felt like more than he deserved.

"He does that a lot." Reid whispered to Morgan as they stood in the hallway outside Jack's room.

"What? Sleep?"

"I meant the nuzzling thing, but, yeah, they both sleep a lot, too. Part of the grieving process."

Morgan nodded. "How is he really, kid? Is there anything we should be doing for him that we're not?"

Reid considered before replying. "There _is_ something I've been wondering about."

"What?"

"Thing is, it'll hurt him. A lot." Morgan's widened eyes prompted the young doctor to continue. "That muscle spasm on his back. I got it to relax once, but it was tough…on both of us."

"What do you mean?"

So Reid explained how he'd applied extreme pressure to the ridge of locked muscle the first time he'd discovered it.

"It hurt him like hell at first, but then it smoothed out and I think he was surprised to find out how much pain he'd been living with all these months. Problem was I couldn't keep the pressure on for very long." Reid inspected his long, slender fingers. "Just not strong enough." He gave Morgan a crooked smile. "But _you_…you could probably keep it up long enough for it to…maybe…do some _real_ good."

Morgan looked at Hotch still crouched by Jack's bedside, then back at Reid.

"It hurt him?"

"Yeah, but I'm thinking that if we can manually break the 'muscle memory' and kind of remind it to relax, combined with the ultra sound, it might speed up his recovery."

"Might?"

"Couldn't hurt." They both watched Hotch struggle to his feet, giving one last caress to the top of Jack's head, one last kiss on his forehead to follow the one Rossi had left earlier. "Well, it'll _hurt_, but I don't see how it could do any more damage."

Morgan rubbed one hand over his face and decided he was glad J.J. had insisted on monitoring Hotch before she left, presiding over the consumption of the dreaded painkiller. _Poor guy's going to need it_. He nodded at Reid, giving a tacit go-ahead. Reid looked pleased to have an accomplice.

"Hotch? There's something I'd…we'd…like to try on you."

Hotch looked at Reid with just a touch of trepidation. He wondered when his body had become public property and if it would ever really be his own again. But at the end of a day when Strauss was on his mind, when he was again fully drugged, and sinking beneath the weight of the weariness, defeat and guilt that haunted him at the end of each day, he didn't have it in him to object.

"What?"

"Come with us." Reid took his arm and led him down the hall toward the living room.

Hotch sent a silent blessing up to J.J. for her dogged determination when it came to the painkiller. He had a feeling he was going to need it.


	19. Best Intentions, Worst Results

"You sure you want to try this tonight, kid?" Morgan looked at Reid as he helped Hotch down to the living room floor.

"No time like the present."

"Hotch? You okay with this?" Morgan thought his boss looked a little frazzled, but that could just be the latest multi-dose of drugs coursing through his system.

"Yeah. Sure." Hotch didn't _sound_ sure.

Reid, on the other hand, seemed a little too eager; like a researcher on the verge of a breakthrough who anticipated accolades and approval once his final experiment had proved successful. Morgan vowed to keep a close eye on the proceedings in case Reid needed reminding that the subject of this particular experiment was their friend, a man who'd already been pushed past the point where most would have broken.

For his part, Reid thought he was taking every possible precaution; anticipating all likely obstacles. He had the bottle of suppressant and a glass of water standing by in case lying prone exacerbated Hotch's cough. He had a couple of folded towels ready in case the floor turned out to be too firm a surface for comfort. He couldn't think of anything that might go wrong. What they hoped to do wasn't that complicated.

The plan Reid had outlined was for Hotch to lie on his back on the bare, hard floor. Morgan would slide a hand under him and locate the muscle spasm. Aided by Hotch's own body weight and gravity, he would dig his fingers into the rigid muscle just as Reid had, breaking it out of its locked position. Reid was counting on Morgan's strength and the fact that this time there wouldn't be any chance of Hotch collapsing once the pain released him. If they could unlock the muscle repeatedly over the span of several days, Reid was confident that the effectiveness of the ultra sound would increase. The combination of manipulation and therapy should speed Hotch's recovery exponentially.

Hotch settled himself on the floor with Reid and Morgan kneeling on either side of him. He felt claustrophobic with both of them looming over him. At least, that's what he decided was causing his growing unease.

"Arms out at your side," Reid instructed. "You ready, Hotch?"

"Sure."

"Now remember last time; it's going to hurt a lot at first, but then it'll feel a _lot_ better." Reid glanced at Morgan. "Let's do it."

Hotch closed his eyes. Morgan reached under him and had no trouble finding the spasm. He moved his hand so his fingers could probe as deeply as possible into the muscles. One more look at Reid and he pushed as much as he could against the rock-hard ridge. He started to lift Hotch, but counteracted that by placing his free hand on Hotch's shoulder and pressing him back down toward the floor and against the pressure of his fingers.

Hotch's eyes snapped open. His breath expelled in a sharp gasp of pain. Reid could see the agony freeze him.

"Reid?" Morgan looked worried. He hated hurting this man no matter how beneficial it might be in the long run.

And then there was a sudden release. Morgan felt the hard knots give way and kept his fingers in position, refusing to let the muscles lock up again. Hotch's abrupt inhale told Reid it was working. He listened to Hotch pant and wondered if his lungs were inflating more evenly now. Reid slipped a hand under the hem of Hotch's t-shirt and laid his palm against the bruised area of his ribs. A pang of pity passed through him. The movement of the bones beneath his hand felt…fragile. That wasn't a word he'd ever connected to his boss before.

It was going well. Reid looked at Hotch's face and…froze. He was speechless, but the Unit Chief's eyes were locked on Reid's. They were pleading for something. As Reid watched, they glazed over and he knew Hotch wasn't really with them anymore.

And then it hit him. Hotch flat on his back, helpless, with someone's hand inside his shirt, feeling for a reaction to pain. It was Foyet's first attack all over again. Reid jerked his hand away.

"Morgan! Stop! STOP! Get him up!"

Confused, Morgan eased his grip and felt the spasm snap back into place. He raised Hotch to a sitting position and pulled him close, supporting his boss with his own body.

"What?! What's wrong, Reid?!"

"Hotch, I'm sorry! Oh, God. Hotch, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're okay, right? I'm sorry."

"Reid! What's going on?! Talk to me, man!" Morgan had no idea what had gone wrong, but clearly, something unexpected and terrible had happened.

"It's stuff he told me about Foyet. We pretty much just recreated one of the worst moments in his life." Reid knelt before Hotch and touched his face, raising his head, looking into his eyes. "Hotch? Hotch? I didn't think. I'm sorry."

"'S okay." The eyes still had a faraway look and the voice was distant.

Morgan wrapped his arms around his boss and clambered to his feet, pulling Hotch up with him. "It's late. That's enough for one night." Keeping one arm around him, Morgan helped Hotch into the bedroom.

When he returned, Reid was just finishing a phone call.

"Who was that?"

Reid slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"I thought maybe we should get Rossi back here. He's on his way."

Several miles to the east, Kevin Lynch was reading tech trade magazines in bed, trying to fall asleep. He kept thinking about Penelope; colorful, unpredictable Penelope. She was a human rainbow who trailed light and warmth in her wake.

Kevin couldn't concentrate on reading. He reached for his phone. It wasn't too late to call Ms. Garcia. He thought she might appreciate knowing about Dr. Zwerling's sunny prediction for Hotch.

When Garcia answered the phone on the third ring, Kevin could hear noise in the background. It sounded like something vintage in black-and-white. The voices had that stilted, broad quality that he associated with movies from the 1940s.

"H-Hello?" He could tell she'd been crying. She loved tearjerkers. He was sorry he wasn't there to share some popcorn and comfort.

"Hey, it's me." He reveled in the privilege of the 'it's me' greeting; a small intimacy based on the realization that, out of all the voices in the world, she'd know his.

"Kevin? Hi."

"Hi." He could hear her snuffling about with tissues. "Sad movie?"

"Yeah." Silence in the background. She must have paused whatever she was watching. "It's kind of late. Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for everything you guys, your team, have been going through. Especially Agent Hotchner."

"Thanks. Hotch'll be fine, I think, I hope anyway."

"He will be. I saw the reports from the hospital. But I just wanted to let you know I'm sorry it all happened."

The soft sniffling sounds trailed off. Garcia's tone changed. It was sharper, more focused.

"What reports?"

"The one's from St. Sebastian." Kevin wasn't sure if he'd said something wrong. When Garcia didn't respond, he continued. "Strauss had a copy. She sent them to me to unlock and…I guess I read them." It was a standing joke in IT that the techies ignored injunctions to work on documents without actually reading them. They considered their alternate title to be the Department of Discretion; they were privy to more secrets than even the Director himself.

"W-why…why would Strauss have reports about Hotch?"

"I dunno. She's his superior. Isn't that normal?"

"She had you _unlock_ them?"

"Yeeeeaaaahhh." Kevin was beginning to wonder if he was missing something.

"Okay, Kevin. Spill it. Tell me everything. I want the whats, the whens, the wheres, the whys. Now!"

For the next half hour Kevin felt as though he were a foreign agent being debriefed for excruciating minutiae by one of the CIA's most relentless interviewers.

When Rossi returned to Hotch's apartment, Reid and Morgan were waiting for him. Reid had sounded panicked over the phone. Something about 'getting inside Hotch's head' and making him relive Foyet's attack. Now the young doctor was hunched over in a chair, looking guilty. Morgan wasn't happy, but his relative calm eased Rossi's fears a little.

Rossi took off his jacket and tossed it on a stool. "Once again, Reid, tell me what happened."

"He told me some stuff about what Foyet did to him." Reid sounded miserable. He fixed his gaze on the floor and wouldn't meet Rossi's eyes. "I wasn't thinking. He trusted me and I put him in the exact same position and did the exact same things Foyet did. Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

"I'm assuming you _didn't_ stab him nine times or kill a member of his family?" That got Reid to look up, horrified at the suggestion.

"No! Of course not!"

"Morgan? What's your take on all this?"

"We were working on that muscle spasm thing. I don't know what exactly triggered it, but he did look like he was going into some kind of shock. I thought it was just the pain, but Pretty Boy here got all freaked out." Morgan tipped his head toward Hotch's bedroom. "I told him to go to sleep." His next comment was clearly meant for Reid. "Maybe we should let him heal at his own pace for a while. You know…'less is more?'"

Rossi sighed. He'd been hoping to catch up on some sleep himself. Tonight was Morgan's turn to watch over the Hotchner household.

"I'll look in on him." He started toward the bedroom. "Go home, Reid. I don't think you could have done much harm."

Reid looked unconvinced. Rossi tried again. "Hotch knows you wouldn't try to hurt him. Not on purpose, anyway."

As he opened the bedroom door and let his eyes adjust to the darkness, Rossi thought that he'd seriously have to reconsider his view of the world as a place where good and evil ultimately balanced out, if anything else bad happened to Aaron.

Unfortunately, he failed to take Erin Strauss into account.


	20. Hidden Wounds

Rossi let his eyes adjust to the gloom of Hotch's bedroom. He could hear Morgan and Reid having a low-voiced discussion in the living room as Reid prepared to leave. Closing the door behind him, he went to Hotch's bedside. The form in the bed was curled up, facing the wall. There was no acknowledgement, but Rossi knew Hotch was awake; not exactly faking sleep, but not doing anything to encourage a visitor.

He sat on the edge of the bed. After a silent moment, he took hold of Hotch's shoulder and pulled him over, forcing him to twist at the waist and face him. There was no resistance. Rossi could feel Hotch looking at him in the dark. He let his hand fall to Hotch's chest and patted him a few times.

"Still have some demons in there?"

Hotch nodded. Rossi made small, massaging motions over his friend's heart and waited for him to say something.

"Why are you here?"

"Reid called me. You scared him." A long pause.

"I got scared, too."

"What happened?" The silence went on long enough for Rossi to consider repeating the question. But when Hotch turned the rest of his body toward him, he knew the decision to talk had been made.

"I don't know…exactly."

Rossi waited. _He wants to tell me, but he doesn't know how to explain it_. He offered Hotch an opening. "Morgan said you went into some kind of shock."

"I don't know. I just…everything went…away, I guess." Hotch turned completely onto his side, facing Rossi. "I don't know where I was, but I know I've been there before. It felt…familiar." He reached a hand out and turned on the bedside lamp. His shadowed eyes searched Rossi's. "Does that make sense?"

"Yes." Rossi's hand dropped to the side of Hotch's waist and remained, thumb moving gently over the lower ribs; a gesture that spoke of care and concern more than words ever could.

"Then maybe you could explain it to me?" Hotch's voice caught, but didn't break.

"I'll try." Rossi composed himself. He found it sad and strange that he still had to after so many, many years. "You're too young to have been aware of Vietnam while it was happening."

"I'm not a kid, Dave. I know about Vietnam."

"Not like I know about it. I'm not going to tell you war stories. I _will_ tell you that when you get caught in a situation that challenges all your beliefs; when all you once thought to be good and true, about people, about yourself, about the entire world and all of humanity is not only called into question, but is destroyed beyond your ability to absorb it, you have to find a way to survive. There's no _place_ and no _one_ safe in the world anymore. Not for you. So you _make_ a safe place. For your sanity, you run in the only way you can."

Rossi could feel Hotch's breathing grow shallower. He'd noticed his friend's response over the last few days to physical contact. Prentiss' touch had calmed him. So had J.J.'s. Now, he slowed the motion of his thumb over Hotch's ribs, sending him subconscious comfort. _Easy, slow breaths. No one will hurt you_.

"Vietnam was like that for me. You get through it somehow, but you don't realize until much later what it did to you. That's when you learn that not all wounds heal naturally. Some you have to work at. It's scary because you don't have the tools or the skill to heal yourself. You don't know how. Realizing you're damaged like that drives the wound deeper. Your first instinct is to hide, to pretend. But that won't work. Not in the long run. You end up feeling as though there's a piece of cardboard between you and the rest of the world. You live a half-life. The bad guys win."

"Did you find something that helped?"

"Talking. I was lucky, because there were a lot of guys like me. Today, they'd call it a 'support group,' but back then it was just vets who went to reunions and meetings without knowing why they were drawn there. We needed to be together to know that we weren't to blame. The horrifying things that went down weren't our fault. We didn't make the war and we weren't in control when we got there. You have to be strong enough to let go." Hotch's breath still didn't feel right; too shallow, too rapid. Rossi tried moving his whole hand back and forth in slow, steady rhythm along Hotch's side.

"I _know_ Foyet wasn't my fault. I _know_ it was his choice to single me out."

Rossi felt a wave of sadness for what needed to come next.

"Do you know the same about your father?"

Rossi watched his words hit their target. _So, that's what Morgan meant when he said Hotch went into 'some kind of shock.'_

Garcia was dithering. Not out loud. In her mind. Panic was ricocheting around her brain like a scared rabbit. She had hung up on Kevin mid-sentence. She had clambered off her bed and spilled the bowl of cheddar-flavored popcorn that had been her date for the night. She was shuffling back and forth, back and forth, the purple unicorn slippers on her feet gazing up at her with rainbow smiles.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…"

She picked up her phone. Morgan was her instinctive choice. She hesitated. It was Morgan's night to look after Hotch. Not a good time to call.

_Prentiss!_ Garcia loved all her colleagues, but Emily was at the top of her Most-Admired Female list. She was tough and smart and the unofficial alpha female to Hotch's alpha male. Not a mom-figure by any means, but definitely the go-to girl in this situation.

It was late, but Garcia was afraid that it was even later, maybe _too_ late, for Hotch.

"Emily?! Emily, listen, something bad's going on with Hotch."

"Mmmph? Huh?" Across town Prentiss was trying to pry her eyes open and wondering if that third glass of wine…_big_ glass of wine…had been a good idea. With all that had happened in the last several days, she had felt like unwinding and had finally given herself permission to do so when it looked as though everything…Hotch in particular…was under control. It took her a minute to recognize Garcia's voice and by then half of whatever Garcia was explaining had fallen out of the receiver and had somehow managed to completely bypass Prentiss' ear.

"Whoa, whoa…" Prentiss scrubbed at her face with her free hand. "Garcia? What are…I didn't get…GARCIA!" Finally, blessed silence on the other end.

"Oh, Emily. I'm scared."

_Don't panic. It could be anything from a mouse in her apartment to a harshly spoken exchange with a stranger_. Penelope verged on being a savant. Her computer skills were phenomenal, but she wasn't the most sensible, logical creature. To Prentiss, who excelled at compartmentalizing and multi-tasking in a fiercely strategic way, such a combination was incomprehensible. But so very refreshing and loveable.

"Slow down, Garcia." Prentiss swung her legs off the bed and went from drawer to closet, assembling clothing. Something told her she wasn't done for the night.

An hour later while most of Quantico slumbered, Prentiss was on her way to pick up Garcia and then Kevin. She knew what she was planning…_hoping_ was a plan…could come down hard on anyone involved. She needed the two IT techs, but no one else could know. She let her own emotional response to Garcia's suspicions fall in controlled layers, safely stratified so she would remain cool and focused.

No one knew it, but more than any other member of the BAU, Prentiss was a predator. The tale about Strauss' interest in Hotch's medical reports brought out the huntress in her. She recognized a kindred spirit in Strauss. A professional savagery. The difference was that Emily Prentiss wouldn't allow anyone to mess with her pack leader…_team_ leader, she reminded herself.

This battle would be privately fought. The she-wolves were about to tangle.

Prentiss just hoped that she would survive a match with the likes of Erin Strauss.


	21. Prentiss on the Prowl

Kevin Lynch felt terrible, just terrible. He didn't know the dynamics between Erin Strauss and Aaron Hotchner, so he couldn't be blamed, but the look in Penelope's eyes killed him. The look in Emily Prentiss' eyes scared the hell out of him.

It was 4 a.m. and a war counsel was taking place around the table in Kevin's apartment.

"So she told you to destroy _all_ the other copies? You don't have the original e-mail she sent you? There's no chance it's still in your 'delete' box? There's absolutely no way you can recover it?" Prentiss was leaning forward, questioning Kevin for the second time. Her intensity and posture made him feel as though she were…aimed…at him. A weapon waiting to fire. It was not a comfortable position, but he had to admit, it was an effective one. He wracked his brain for any possible way he could retrieve or re-access Hotch's medical reports. But Kevin was a good Bureau employee. He did as told and did his best at it. The original files were gone. Extinct. Toast. He felt just awful.

"Emily, shouldn't we warn Hotch? Rossi? Someone?" Garcia could feel her dither-reflex surfacing.

"No." Prentiss hadn't broken eye contact with Kevin. He squirmed under her stare, but she wasn't really seeing him anymore. She was remembering Morgan flubbing something on his computer at work, backing himself into a technical corner and flailing about helplessly until Reid yelled at him to 'call IT.' Garcia had been gone for the day and some anonymous techie had responded to Morgan's crisis by remote accessing his workstation and digging him out of whatever digital hole he'd fallen into.

"Kevin, can you get Hotch's records _back_ from Strauss' computer?"

"Uh, I…I don't…we can't…Agent Prentiss that would be _really_ unethical!"

"You're gonna sit there and talk to me about 'ethics' when that Strauss-beast is probably falsifying Hotch's med recs as we speak? For real?"

_Lord, she's scary_…"No, I mean, you can do that, sort of, but…" Kevin took a much-needed breath. "It's kind of like being a vampire."

"What!?" "Huh?" This time _both_ Garcia and Prentiss were dissecting him with their eyes.

"You have to be invited in."

"Exactly how does one get 'invited in?'"

"Well, it's more a set of pre-existing circumstances than an actual invitation."

Prentiss felt a small thrill of excitement. Even if the circumstances Kevin needed were extraordinary and bizarre, even if she had to morph herself into Strauss and provide a retinal scan and tissue sample, at least the possibility existed. Prentiss always preferred action to planning, but this was one time when she would have to explore the situation thoroughly. Normally, this was a Hotch-thing; his experience and native ability meshing and seeming to spew out viable strategies like candy out of a gumball machine. Prentiss glanced at her watch and realized they only had a few hours before what passed for a normal business day at the BAU began.

"How are these pre-existing circumstances usually accomplished?"

"Strauss would have to be at her computer and logged in." Garcia offered the answer before Kevin could reply. Prentiss turned her attention to the woman who was still wearing her unicorn slippers. "I-I've never done remote access, but I know it. In theory. But I've never done it. Not in the Bureau with all its firewalls anyway."

Freed from Prentiss' gimlet gaze, Kevin recovered enough to let his mind roam over the unthinkable prospect of illegally accessing the computer of a top official of the FBI.

"Even if you could log on and get in, it could be traced back to IT. To…us…to be exact."

"Unlesssss…" Penelope got that distant look that Prentiss associated with 'going savant.'

"Unless what, Garcia?"

"Unlessss…I set up a loop of proxy servers and time them out to thirty second switch-offs." Garcia looked almost ecstatic. "I bet I could make it like a mobius strip…it would never end…" Her smile was beatific. "And the only ones who could figure it out would be people who work in…"

"The IT Department!" Kevin finished for her, his smile mirroring hers. It only lasted for a moment, then his face fell. "But even if we get the records back from Strauss, she'll just do it again. All she has to do is send the locked hospital files down to IT and start all over."

"She won't do that if she thinks she was successful in altering them." Prentiss warmed up to her emerging plan. "Kevin, without getting invited in, can you tell what programs and applications Strauss is using, as she's working in them?"

"Sure, but I can only tell what she's _using_, not what she's actually _doing_."

Prentiss nodded. "Do you remember what the original hospital records said?"

"I don't know medical terminology that much, but I remember the end said that Agent Hotchner should recover fully. I think the only loose ends were if he stays depressed and I guess if someone hits him in the ribs again, they'll probably break…something about weakness, that's all."

Prentiss rubbed her sleepless eyes. She would have given almost anything to transfer Reid's eidetic memory into Kevin's skull. _Work with what you've got_.

"Okay. Here's how it goes down." Emily laid out the steps and pitfalls of what she hoped this ad-hoc team would accomplish. There were so many things that could go wrong. Hotch had told her once to focus on the goal and to knock down obstacles as they appeared. It was how field agents thought on their feet. _I bet Hotch never in a million years suspected the 'field' would be Strauss' office_.

Prentiss grinned. No matter if she lost her job or ended up incarcerated, she thrilled when adrenalin started building in her blood. It always did at the start of a mission.

Garcia and Kevin were alarmed when Agent Prentiss bared her teeth like that. It made them think she was a slightly demented daredevil. And this was their leader.

Four in the morning.

Morgan and Rossi had both elected to stay the night at Hotch's apartment. Morgan dozed occasionally. Rossi was running on caffeine and concern. Hotch hadn't slept at all.

The realization that his bouts of panic didn't stem from Foyet, but from a childhood he'd discounted as being too distant to affect the grown man he was, had lanced through him like an icicle, leaving frozen images in its wake. He had spent the hours since examining each one of them. Turning them over and inspecting every detail. What was blurry came into sharp focus. What was numb became newly painful.

He sat on the edge of his bed, knees pulled up and encircled by his arms, drawn in upon himself. He was vaguely aware that Rossi sat beside him. Every once in a while he could feel Rossi's hand on his back or shoulder. It kept him grounded without disrupting his train of thought. On some level he was aware of Morgan slouched in a chair, ever watchful, except when he drifted off only to awaken with a jerk as his head fell forward.

Even the medicinal cocktail running through his veins didn't take the edge off. Hotch was training his analytical, adult mind on incidents preserved with a child's perspective. He could still feel panic at them. His breathing would become labored and sweat would chill him. At those moments, both Morgan and Rossi would draw closer. Low, even voices and gentle touches would see him through. And then it would begin again. Hotch knew he was trapped in some emotional process. He didn't know how to escape. Ironically, when a small corner of awareness whispered to him that the only way to win free was to continue on, to let go…he began to emerge from the state Morgan had labeled as shock.

He blinked and looked around, confirming that he was back in his adult self.

"Hotch?" Rossi's hand was on his back again. "You okay?"

He let out a long, shuddering breath.

"Hotch?" Morgan leaned forward and touched Hotch's chin, bringing his eyes around to where he could look into them.

Hotch noticed the weak daylight seeping around the blinds. He uncurled from himself and stood up; a move that brought both his friends to their feet, one on each side as though they expected him to collapse.

"You guys have been here all night." Hotch shook his head, regretting putting his friends through more, but grateful for their dedication. "I'm sorry." He moved toward the door. Rossi and Morgan followed.

Hotch went to Jack's room and took his place sitting on the floor at his son's bedside. It was the only place he wanted to be at the moment. He wasn't sure what the night's journey had been about and he didn't know how to describe what it had done to him. Saying he was 'freer' wasn't quite right. But looking at Jack, he felt…more. He thought of Rossi talking about a piece of cardboard inserted between him and the rest of the world. Hotch wasn't sure, but he thought that barrier might be getting flimsier. He just felt _more_ of everything. It scared him. He couldn't imagine what it would be like if that cardboard completely disappeared. He stroked Jack's cheek with one finger and let himself feel a deeper version of a love he'd already thought depthless. _Where will this take me…us?_ He closed his eyes and accepted that he'd have to find out. For his son's sake as well as his own.

Morgan and Rossi watched their leader from the doorway.

"Nuzzling," Rossi said with authority.

"Nuzzling," Morgan agreed.

At the Bureau, Erin Strauss was logging onto her computer. When she found the e-mail from IT, she smiled. She opened the attachment and paged to the end, the prognosis. When she inserted her curser and highlighted a sentence with ease, she leaned back and gave a contented sigh. This was going to be fun.


	22. Operation 'Cover Hotch's Hiney'

Strauss drummed her fingers on the edge of her keyboard. Her meeting with the Director was scheduled for two that afternoon. She could take her time 'revising' Aaron Hotchner's medical records. Good. This was something to be savored and memorized, so she could take it out and mentally review it at odd moments when she needed a little lift. This would be one of her 'treasures' that she would gloat over for years. _And it won't really hurt Aaron_, she told herself. _He needs a rest. He needs to be removed from the arena where he was hurt so badly_. Strauss thought she might be doing the man a tremendous favor with just a few deletions and only a word or two added. It wouldn't take long, so she allowed herself to linger over every keystroke.

Kevin manned his workstation, his face lit by the monitor's glow.

At the opposite end of the room, still in her unicorn slippers, Garcia's hands flew over three different keyboards, linking and timing a multitude of proxy servers around the globe. Kevin's computer along with several others at the BAU, pressed into service as innocent decoys, would be inconsequential blips hidden within the array.

Prentiss stood behind and between her two co-conspirators, inserting a tiny, flesh-colored earpiece, one of the least noticeable available, into her right ear canal. She was dividing her attention between Kevin and Garcia, waiting for them to have their ducks in a row before she initiated her own sequence of events.

They might accomplish nothing. They might be apprehended and punished in any number of ways. They might make things worse. But they might, maybe, possibly succeed.

Prentiss loved it.

She moved closer to Kevin, looking over his shoulder.

"So…what was the name of the program the hospital used?"

"Medlock." Kevin's eyes were fastened on a window centered in his screen; a window that was displaying every process and application currently active on Erin Strauss' computer.

"And the Bureau doesn't ever use that for anything?"

"Nope. It's a program St. Sebastian had custom-made. There might be variations out there, but no one else has that exact configuration."

"And…"

"She's in it!" Kevin sat up straighter.

"Can you tell what she's…"

"She's writing! She's _using_ the program, not just reading!"

Prentiss stared at the numbers scrolling across Kevin's monitor. "That's it, then. She's overwriting Hotch's med recs. Why that…that…"

"Toxic harpy?" Garcia supplied her own descriptive opinion of their Section Chief. Prentiss laughed. Kevin looked uncomfortable at denigrating a superior, but had to accept the label in light of what was marching across his screen.

"Okay. I'm on." Prentiss turned before stepping through the doorway. "You're picking me up, right?" She pointed at her ear where the combination mic/receiver nestled unseen.

Kevin checked another, smaller screen beside him. "Gotcha."

"Here we go." Prentiss disappeared down the hallway, the IT room door with its airtight seal and combination lock, whooshing closed behind her.

It was the first time Garcia and Kevin had ever felt that the soft, heavy noise sounded ominous. As though it were locking them in rather than securing them from outsiders.

Strauss was being very careful. It wouldn't do to take a wrong turn in an unfamiliar program and wind up needing tech help from IT. She was slowly and methodically selecting and deleting, creating a much bleaker future for Aaron Hotchner. It was irritating when she was interrupted. She glanced up at the sharp rap on her door to see Emily Prentiss, eyebrows raised; a silent request for admittance. Strauss nodded. Prentiss entered.

"Ma'am?"

"Agent."

"You look busy, Ma'am, but I was wondering if I could talk to you later?"

"What's on your mind, Agent?"

"Well…" Prentiss glanced at her watch. "Actually, I have to be somewhere right now. Is there a time we could meet later?"

Strauss was proud that her separation from the Director was several degrees less than that of her subordinates. She rarely missed an opportunity to reference it. "Actually, my day is pretty free. I only have one meeting that shouldn't be rescheduled." She inclined her head, favoring this lowly agent with privileged information. "A meeting with the Director. But that's not until two o'clock. So, otherwise, you can drop by when _your_ time permits." Strauss managed to convey that Prentiss' time was not her own; she was at the beck and call of so many superiors. Unlike Strauss who could shuffle at will…except for the ultimate, the luminary of the Bureau…the Director.

"Thank you, Ma'am. I appreciate it." Prentiss closed Strauss' office door and retreated down the corridor to a secluded alcove. She pressed the transmitter in her ear. "Did you get that?"

"Copy." Kevin's tinny voice came back at her.

"I bet you anything that's when she's going to trash Hotch's health and have the documents to back it up." Prentiss settled herself on one of the deep window ledges placed at intervals around the building. "Let me know as soon as she closes out of that Medlock program."

Prentiss waited. It wasn't something she was good at, but there was too much at stake to risk rushing. She amused herself by considering names for her mini-team's current mission. She particularly liked 'Cover Hotch's Hiney.'

Strauss leaned her elbows on her desk. Over steepled fingers she read the final prognosis that would be entered in Aaron Hotchner's permanent records and would likely result in his transfer out of the dangerous environs of the BAU.

'Patient is undernourished and suffering from exhaustion exacerbated by bacterial pneumonia. He admits to making misleading statements during previous hospitalization regarding level of pain and general well-being. Additional re-injury has resulted in severe muscle spasm and bone fragmentation. Medications prescribed to address pain, muscle spasm, pneumonia. Additionally, patient seems depressed. SPECIAL NOTE: the re-injury occurred during an altercation that resulted in the death of patient's ex-wife. Depression is judged clinical. Recommend follow-up as condition worsens. Full recovery doubtful.'

Strauss smiled the broad, satisfied grin of a well-fed crocodile. When her own career ended, many years from now, this might possibly be considered her masterpiece. She read the altered prognosis one last time, saved her changes, and closed the attachment. She knew the Director liked to spend what he considered his lunch break reading e-mails that had come in during his busy morning hours. Strauss planned to send the hospital report along with a message expressing her sincere concern at precisely noon. It would be at the top of the list when the Director opened his mail. The first thing he'd see.

She stretched and thought how luxurious life felt at times like this.

"She's out!" Kevin alerted Prentiss.

"Wish me luck." Prentiss propelled herself off the window ledge like a greyhound released from the gate.

Rossi knew he couldn't go much longer without some solid sleep. Morgan needed rest, too. Still, he was reluctant to leave Hotch alone. There was no predicting the emotional repercussions of the night. As an observer, Rossi thought his friend had experienced multiple panic attacks traceable to a childhood the very thought of which brought out a white-hot fury in him. He could imagine the child Hotch must have been. The image brought out a protective, fatherly love in him. If he could change one thing in his life, Rossi wished he could have been present to beat Mr. Hotchner to a bloody pulp the first time he laid a hand on Aaron.

Who knows what the boy could have been if he'd been allowed to grow and mature in a normal fashion? As it was, Hotch would be carrying the burden of his father's violence to his grave. _Damn that monster_, thought Rossi. He realized anger had burned off his fatigue.

"Go home, Morgan."

"No. Can't."

"Go home. He didn't sleep last night, so he'll probably pass out before long anyway." Morgan still looked obstinate. "And didn't you say Garcia was coming by later with more food? I'll leave when she comes. She'll be able to look after Jack. Hotch'll be out for hours and I'll be back by dinner time. Go home."

Morgan mulled the prospect of leaving Hotch in Garcia's hands. It was like leaving a puppy in the care of a baby chick. Something just didn't seem feasible about the arrangement. He pulled out his phone. Rossi raised an eyebrow at him.

"Let me check first." The call was answered before even one ring completed.

"What?!" Garcia's voice was terse, brittle.

"Hello to you, too, Baby Girl."

"Morgan!" He could hear her hitting a keyboard at a furious pace. Odd.

"Gar-ci-aaaa? What's goin' on?"

"Nothing. Busy. Bye."

She hung up. Morgan eyed his disconnected phone and met Rossi's quizzical look.

"Maybe I'll hang out for a little while longer. I'm not sure Garcia's gonna make it."

Rossi was pretty sure Hotch had just fallen asleep on the floor, slumped against his son's box spring. "Tell you what; you put him back in his bed and then go home. I'll call J.J. She was gonna register Jack in kindergarten this morning and then come by and tell Hotch she'd take him to his first day tomorrow." Rossi shrugged. "Jack loves J.J. It'll work out fine."

Morgan mirrored Rossi's shrug and moved to Hotch's side. He mused that he was getting really good at gathering up this man's limp form.

Neither gave another thought to Garcia, who was mournfully considering the seven casseroles in her refrigerator that would likely either be late to Hotch's or would slowly decompose as she, Kevin and Prentiss languished in a federal prison.

She shook the image out of her mind and continued to type, monitoring the loop of proxy servers to make sure the integrity of her creation wasn't breached.

_Hurry, Emily! Please hurry!_ She reminded herself to breathe and kept typing.


	23. All In a Morning's Work

Prentiss was at the office door within seconds of being told Strauss had exited the Medlock program. She knocked and reminded herself to smile the official I-know-you're-more-important-than-I-am smile.

Strauss was feeling expansive. She cast one more fond look at her monitor where the e-mail containing Aaron Hotchner's altered medical records was waiting to be sent to the Director. She had taken her own sweet time changing the file. She planned to send it in about forty-five minutes. She wouldn't enjoy the wait, though. Whatever Agent Prentiss wanted to discuss would provide distraction. And it would be so much fun to have this particular agent in her office, completely ignorant of the blow about to be dealt to her boss. Strauss leaned back, smiled a rare, genuine smile and motioned for Prentiss to enter.

"Agent."

"Thank you for seeing me, Ma'am. I appreciate your taking the time." Prentiss stopped and looked toward the large windows spanning the far wall as though noticing them for the first time. She went to one and looked out. "This is nice. Working in the bullpen I sometimes go all day without seeing outside." Prentiss knew the subtext wouldn't be lost on the Section Chief: _You have a view; you're more important than those who don't_.

Strauss preened just a little. "Have a seat, Agent." She was only momentarily surprised when Prentiss sat on the small sofa which commanded a view of the scenery outside the windows. It was as far away from the woman behind the desk as one could get. _She wants to enjoy the sunlight. No matter_. Strauss rose, walked around her desk and settled into one of the upholstered chairs opposite the sofa. "What's on your mind, Prentiss?"

Emily's smile was genuine now, too. "I don't mean to take you away from your desk, but I just wanted to say some things, to touch bases with you."

Down in IT, Kevin stiffened. "She's away from her desk!"

"Hurry!" Garcia's fingers continued to fly over her proxy network.

Kevin began typing almost as rapidly.

Prentiss reminded herself to slow down, pause, occasionally stop to look out the windows. She had to give Kevin ample time on Strauss' computer. It was on and Strauss was logged in. The rest was up to Kevin's remote access talents.

"Ma'am, I know I've been a disappointment to you."

Strauss inclined her head in gracious acknowledgement. If only Agent Prentiss knew that it no longer mattered that she hadn't fulfilled the purpose for which she'd been assigned to the BAU: to oust Aaron. Strauss savored the moment and Prentiss allowed her the time to do so.

"You're a very effective agent, Prentiss."

"You know what I mean." Emily worked at looking downcast, regretful.

"Hmmpf." Strauss didn't dignify her with more than a grunt. Even if Hotchner's fate was as good as sealed, this minion of his _did_ deserve to know she could have allied herself with Strauss. Once the Director made his decision to reassign her boss, she'd be sorry she hadn't.

"I just wanted you to know that even if I haven't lived up to your expectations, Ma'am, I'm very aware that I owe you a lot for getting me into the BAU." Prentiss swallowed the abhorrence she was feeling. "I'm grateful, Ma'am. Truly." She paused again to look at the scenery.

Kevin was inside the altered hospital records, paging through, looking for anything that jumped out as less than the optimistic report he recalled. And there it was. At the very end.

"Jeez Louise," he breathed.

"What?" Garcia had hit her stride, her fingers had learned the choreography and now danced across the keys with ease.

"She made it sound like Hotch is a basket case!" Kevin looked over at his purple-slippered accomplice.

"Work!...Honey,…Fast!" Garcia reminded him time was of the essence.

Kevin turned back to the damning paragraph. "I don't know medical stuff. What should I say?"

"Good things! Just do it!"

He began to type. Once he'd started, he realized there wasn't that much that needed to be done. Piece of cake.

Prentiss gave a lengthy sigh and continued to gaze out the window. Let Strauss interpret it as she might, Emily knew it was a stalling maneuver. Strauss' mind was clicking down its familiar paths, wondering how she could turn this agent's reconsideration of past decisions to advantage. Nothing immediate came to mind, but such a potentially useful tool shouldn't be discarded.

"Agent Prentiss, I'm glad you realize your career could have taken a different path." Strauss leaned forward, offering a bone. "What's happened in the past is regrettable, but that doesn't mean we can't find some sort of…_reconciliation_…shall we say?"

"I'm glad you feel that way, Ma'am." Prentiss' skin was crawling, but she was adept at keeping revulsion under control.

Strauss counted her response as agreement. She glanced at her watch and decided to cement the tentative alliance with social niceties. She had some time.

"So…_Emily_…tell me how your mother's doing. Being an ambassador requires such refined political skills. You must be proud of her."

Prentiss grinned and told Section Chief Strauss all about Mom. In excruciating, time-consuming detail.

"Done!" Kevin closed the attachment on Strauss' computer and sat back. He hadn't realized his breathing was heavy and he was sweating.

"Tell Emily!"

"Done!" He looked back at Garcia who was dismantling her loop of proxies, burying identities and disconnecting switches. He enjoyed watching her work. _Something so alluring about it in a digital sort of way_. When she had finished and they were staring at each other, wondering if they'd actually gotten away with it, he asked her something that had occurred to him in the midst of his typing frenzy.

"What if we'd just requested another set of original files from the hospital? Couldn't we have used them instead of all this?"

Garcia wrinkled her nose at him. "Would you _really_ want to go up against Strauss straight on? Head to head? Toe to toe?"

"I don't know."

"No, you…would…_not_." Garcia thought about all the little hints Prentiss and J.J. had let drop, all the grimaces she'd seen from Morgan, Reid and even Rossi whenever Strauss was mentioned. "She would never forget or forgive a direct attack and she'd make everyone involved pay dearly."

"Maybe we could have just substituted a new set of originals for the ones she altered?"

Garcia gave him a long-suffering look. "Time, sweetie. If Emily's right and Strauss is planning on trashing Hotch to the Director at two o'clock, we don't have time to hack. And we'd still have had to do this little dance with remote access to get it into her mail or…again…we'd be going head to head against Strauss." Kevin still looked worried, as though the possible consequences of their gambit were just beginning to dawn on him.

"Don't worry. They won't know who did it. I made sure of that. In fact, there won't even be a 'they.' Strauss is the only one who'll realize her evil plot was foiled." Garcia spoke fond baby-talk to the smiling unicorn slipper on her left foot. "And she's not going to tell anyone, is she? Noooo, she's not!"

When Strauss finally dismissed Agent Prentiss, it was a few minutes past noon.

The Director would be sitting before his computer. No time to lose. She went back to her desk, watched the screen-saver dissipate and opened her e-mail program. It was all ready to go. She almost chuckled aloud, she was so pleased with the whole morning's work. She hit the send button and watched her concerned comment about discussing Agent Hotchner's welfare at their scheduled meeting, and its attachment, wing their way to the Director.

By the end of the day Strauss would kick herself for not having noticed the time stamp on the message; she would have had to be working on the file during her chat with Prentiss.

After a sleepless night, when she realized she couldn't prove anything without incriminating herself, her list of agents she most desired to be rendered toothless and clawless would have doubled: Aaron Hotchner _and_ Emily Prentiss.


	24. Friends With Secrets

The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was rereading his e-mail.

He smiled each time he came to the end of the report on Aaron Hotchner. The one Section Chief Strauss had sent him, preparatory to their meeting that afternoon. He particularly liked the last line and could see why Strauss had felt he should know about this agent's current status.

Odd, though; he'd always thought there was some friction between the two. The Director smiled and reprimanded himself for jumping to conclusions. Obviously, Hotchner was so stellar that even prickly Section Chief Strauss was impressed.

He treated himself to one more reading of the prognosis which Strauss had called to his special attention.

'Patient is undernourished and suffering from exhaustion exacerbated by bacterial pneumonia. He admits to making misleading statements during previous hospitalization regarding level of pain and general well-being. Additional re-injury has resulted in severe muscle spasm and bone fragmentation. Medications prescribed to address pain, muscle spasm, pneumonia. Additionally, patient seems depressed. SPECIAL NOTE: the re-injury occurred during an altercation that resulted in the death of patient's ex-wife. Depression is judged normal in light of patient's recent experience. Recommend follow-up if needed. Full recovery in record time if patient continues on present course. A remarkable, magnificent specimen.'

The Director closed the report and sent the attachment to Hotchner's permanent folder. He deleted the accompanying e-mail from Strauss which had merely said that she thought he should be aware of his Unit Chief's condition and make any appropriate adjustments to his position.

The Director leaned back in his chair and contemplated what would be a nice gesture to make to Hotchner on the Bureau's behalf.

The only thing that puzzled him, but which ultimately he dismissed, was the way Strauss had looked stunned when he had suggested they review Agent Hotchner's record once he had returned to duty and see if they could expand his influence…maybe take something off of Strauss' over-full plate and transfer some of her responsibilities to Hotchner. She had stared at him for a blank moment. After that she had contributed very little to the conversation. He had thought she would have more to say considering the meeting had been at her request.

_Ah, well_, he sighed, _all's well that ends well_.

In spite of the heavy, soundproof structure of all the Bureau's IT rooms, Kevin and Garcia were shushing Prentiss.

"Emily! Please! Someone will h-h-hear…." Garcia couldn't repress her own mirth, but at least she was trying to muffle herself.

Prentiss, on the other hand, was guffawing one of the loudest belly laughs she'd ever enjoyed. She was bent almost double, gasping for breath. "T-tell me again…wha-what you said?"

Kevin wasn't having much success keeping a straight face in the presence of his colleagues' hilarity, but he didn't think it was _that_ funny. "Remarkable, magnificent specimen." His answer ignited fresh peals of laughter and this time Garcia couldn't help herself. Both women were near tears.

"Got a little thing for this guy?" Prentiss gasped.

"I was under the gun!" Kevin turned back to his computer, mumbling under his breath. "I _told_ you I didn't know medical terminology."

When J.J. arrived at Hotch's apartment, she found a very tired Rossi trying to entertain Jack.

"Hey, Jack!" She scooped him up for a good-morning hug before turning to Rossi. "I thought you had the night off. Wasn't Morgan supposed to be the night shift and then Garcia was dropping by with more food?"

"Yeah, well. 'Best laid plans,' ya know?"

J.J. sensed something was off. She put Jack down. "Jack, would you do something for me?" The boy nodded in the overenthusiastic way children do, eager to please a favorite adult. "Can you draw me a picture of Uncle Dave? For my office?"

Rossi groaned. Jack had a tendency to focus on facial hair and his portraits of Uncle Dave resembled a dissipated werewolf. The boy ran to the corner where his crayons and drawing paper waited. His total involvement in making a present for Miss Jarreau gave the adults some privacy.

"So what happened? Where's Hotch?"

"Sleeping off one helluva night."

J.J. glanced at Jack, and then at the bedroom door. "Is he okay? You guys didn't make him drink again, did you?" She was all maternal disapproval.

"No!" Rossi scrubbed at his face. His eyes felt gritty and heavy. "He had some stuff to go through, that's all." J.J. wasn't having it. She fixed her gaze on him and crossed her arms, waiting. Rossi made a decision. "Look, he's got PTSD, alright? He needed to go through some stuff, like I said."

J.J. gave a sigh and looked toward the bedroom. "Well, yeah. We figured as much. I mean, you don't go through what he has and just walk away scot-free. He did a pretty good job fooling the Bureau psychs, but I don't think anyone on the team believes Foyet isn't still in his head."

"Not Foyet."

J.J. swung back toward Rossi. "Not…What?"

"Not Foyet." Rossi started pulling himself together for the drive home. "Let's just keep it private for now, okay? He's been hurt a lot, that's all. Foyet was just the last straw." He hated seeing the sympathetic sorrow welling up in J.J.'s eyes. "Garcia's supposed to drop by, but I'm not sure she'll make it. Morgan thought something weird was going on with her." He patted his pocket, located his keys. "Can you stay for a while? I'll be back, but I need a shower and a few hours sleep first."

"Uh, sure, sure." J.J. was still looking at Hotch's bedroom door, things she had only suspected taking on a terrible, new validity.

J.J. used her time alone with Jack to talk to him about starting at a new school. She was encouraged that he seemed happy for a new adventure. Privately, she thought he was going a little stir-crazy and was leaping at the chance to get out and be with other children. She was a little concerned about having taken so much responsibility for Jack's new life-with-Daddy without discussing it with Hotch, but she reasoned it was necessary. Hotch was in no shape to leave his home, much less take on the multitude of tasks attendant on easing Jack back into a normal child's world.

J.J. smiled. She'd be doing the same for Henry in a few years. She could always tell Hotch she had needed the practice. He wouldn't buy it, but he'd give her that soft look that told her how much her friendship meant and how much he'd forgive intrusion in his life when she was the intruder.

She and Jack were in his room laying out a week's worth of outfits for school when she heard rapid, urgent tapping at the door.

"See if you can find socks that match, one pair for each day." J.J. left Jack to make what she called big-boy decisions and hurried to the door. She didn't want the knocking to disturb Hotch. Although, judging from what Rossi had said her boss probably wouldn't wake up for anything less than a cataclysmic, ground-zero explosion.

She put her eye to the peep hole, grinned and threw the door open, putting her finger to her lips; a request for quiet.

Garcia bustled in, Prentiss right behind her. Both were bearing stacks of oversized Tupperware. J.J. noticed that this set of containers were not only acid-bright, but were festooned with stickers. Silvery stars and metallic sunbursts were scattered with joyful abandon.

"To tell the new ones from the old," Garcia explained when she saw J.J.'s raised brows.

The three went about storing the latest offerings from Garcia's kitchen, talking quietly.

"Wow, Penelope. You must have stayed up all night cooking." J.J. sniffed at the wafting aromas. "Rossi said Morgan thought you might not come by. Said you were up to something 'weird?' What'd he mean?"

Garcia's eyes darted and blinked. "Weird? What? Weird…no, no, nothing…weird. No."

Prentiss' lips were doing that twitchy thing where J.J. could tell she was trying to hold in a grin. A _big_ one. She leaned against the kitchen counter and for the second time that morning crossed her arms and put on her best maternal 'spill-it' look.

Prentiss lost the battle. Her grin expanded, threatening to extend itself beyond all normal bounds. Her shoulders began to shake. The battlefront had moved from grin-control to laugh-confinement.

"I guess we _were_ up all night." Prentiss caught Garcia's eye. "And I guess you could say we were 'cooking.' Just not in a kitchen."

J.J. sighed. She must be the only member of the team who used nights for sleep anymore. She watched Prentiss regain her composure. _Don't ask, don't tell_, she thought. Shaking her head, she went to check on Hotch.

Something told her that he wasn't the only one whose nighttime experience was best kept private.


	25. Children Say the Darndest Things

J.J. watched Hotch sleep. She sat on the bed beside her boss and hoped his dreams were sweet. Or at least restful. He didn't stir, so she risked smoothing some stray hair back from his forehead. Her fingers touched his skin and she let them linger for a moment. He felt warm, but not hot. _No fever_. She tilted her head in the dim light and watched his chest rise and fall. The left side of his ribcage moved in gentle rhythm. Not quite as high as the right side, but…better…much better. _He's coming out of it_, she thought. _A few more days and it'll be a battle to keep him confined_.

She'd begun to smile, but it faded when she recalled Rossi's words. _PTSD_. _And not only because of Foyet_. J.J. thought she'd always known, but she hadn't wanted to shine a light on such dark suspicions. Having Henry had lifted blinders from her heart. She'd never known it was possible to love so deeply and completely. Her love for Will, for her friends, for the rest of her family was strong, unassailable. But when she had a baby, love transformed into something so powerful it was almost scary. It was the first time she didn't have any control over love; it controlled her. Even with Will, there had always been the option, difficult and painful as it would have been, to leave. With Henry, she had no choice. She reveled in how love had imprisoned her. She'd never been happier.

On an almost subliminal level she knew that kind of love had never been given to Hotch. That was the blank spot she sensed in him. He had grown in the dark, with no light or warmth.

She looked at Hotch's peaceful face and tried to imagine him as a boy. _Why would someone hurt him?_ J.J. knew all the faces of violence. God knows, she'd seen enough bodies, wounds, unspeakable crime scenes. But she compartmentalized and separated herself from the horror. That protection vanished when the victim was her friend. _Poor Aaron_. Shadows rested beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his gaunt cheeks. _We're all so fragile; why do we hurt each other?_

A tear fell. It landed where she could see the pulse beating in his throat. She didn't want to wake him; she left it to dry on his skin.

Back in the kitchen Jack was enjoying busy, happy, colorful female company. Prentiss and Garcia were in rare good moods. _Positively buoyant_, thought J.J. as she joined them. When she'd arrived, Rossi had given her the impression that it had been a difficult, painful night. With Emily and Penelope, it felt just the opposite.

"How's Hotch?" Prentiss glanced up as J.J. took a seat at the counter.

"Getting better. I think his fever's down."

"Is he up? Can we make him something to eat?" Garcia moved toward the restocked refrigerator.

"Uh, no. I think he's gonna be out for a while yet."

"So is it just us?" Prentiss asked. "I thought at least Reid would show up to zap Hotch with that…thing." She pointed her chin toward the ultra sound machine.

"I don't know what's going on, guys. I guess Rossi and Morgan were here all night. From what Rossi said, Hotch had a hard time."

"Huh." Prentiss looked thoughtful. "You sure he's okay?"

J.J. nodded. "Check for yourself. He won't wake up."

Prentiss' grin grew mischievous. "Shirt on or shirt off?"

"Emily!" J.J. laughed. Garcia snorted her mirth into her cup of coffee.

"I told you: he has a nice tummy. Very…taut." The laughter increased.

"So…what? Now you're gonna be staring at his beltline during briefing?"

Prentiss shook her head. "No, no, no. He has pretty spectacular cheekbones, too. Cheekbones during briefing; tummy on the jet." All three women tried hard to muffle themselves.

That was when they noticed Jack. He was tracking the conversation with four-year-old intensity. They could only hope he didn't quite 'get it.'

"Change of subject," J.J. said a little too brightly. "Jack's starting kindergarten tomorrow. I'm gonna take him."

"Oh, yeah? I remember kindergarten. It was _great_!" Prentiss had actually hated every second, but she was anxious to erase anything about Hotch's anatomy that might be lingering in Jack's mind, waiting to jump out at odd moments when Daddy was present.

The talk turned to likes, dislikes, and the rules of survival in elementary school.

By late afternoon, J.J. was wondering if they should rouse Hotch just to medicate him. The decision was rendered moot when Reid showed up, with Morgan following a few minutes later.

Reid looked around cautiously as he entered. He was so subdued and Morgan was so solemn that J.J. installed Jack in the far corner with puzzles and picture books, a Disney DVD playing at low volume to further mask adult conversation.

"What's up with you guys? Rossi said it was a rough night."

Reid's face fell. He hid it in his hands for a moment. "I did something really awful." All eyes were on him. It was hard to believe that mild Dr. Reid could attain the level of 'awful.'

"It wasn't your fault, Reid." Morgan was hoping to alleviate his friend's guilt while keeping Hotch's past private.

"What did you do?"

"I made him relive Foyet's attack…the first one…the one where he got stabbed."

"Oh, no." Prentiss looked toward the bedroom door. Of them all, she had the most intimate knowledge of Hotch's scars. She'd run her fingers over them while performing the heat-and-ice therapy and had learned every ridge, every indentation. "Why?!"

"We were just trying to help him. That spasm in his back." Reid slumped a little lower. "I didn't realize until it was too late."

"Reid, it wasn't you." Morgan tried again. "There's more going on here than Foyet. Please. Believe me."

Prentiss' mind was assembling data, running equations. "Wait a minute. Is this that 'letting himself suffer' thing? Did you guys find something out?"

Morgan cringed inwardly. Once Prentiss was on the trail of something, she could be relentless. "Let's just say he's got other things on his plate besides Foyet and he'll work it out in time." No one looked convinced. "Just don't push him, okay? Let's respect his privacy."

"Sounds like he's had waaaaay too much of _that_, if you ask me." Prentiss voiced what most of them were already thinking.

To get everyone focused in a different direction, Morgan asked Reid when he was going to do Hotch's daily ultra sound treatment.

"I don't know. I'm gonna ask him if he wants someone else to do it."

"He'll still want it to be you, kid." Morgan wondered if Hotch hated being in hospitals because as a child he'd been a patient so often. He traveled farther down that path and wondered if Hotch's avoidance of doctors and hospitals might be part of what Prentiss had called the 'letting himself suffer thing.' He grimaced. Both the man and the situation were too complex to be unraveled quite so easily.

"Well, I'm not making him lay on the floor again."

When Rossi arrived an hour later, it had been decided that the men would move the ultra sound machine into Hotch's bedroom. Future sessions of any kind of therapy would be conducted with the subject fully medicated and only after one of them had walked him through the relaxation exercise that had been successful for Prentiss.

By the time they could hear Hotch moving around, both his and Jack's schedules for the next few days had been decided.

Hotch could hear low voices beyond the door. He was getting used to sharing his space, but he hadn't expected to see the entire team watching him as he emerged from his room, snugging the belt on his frayed robe a little tighter.

And he really hadn't expected Jack to run up to him beaming a smile like sunshine and announcing, "Daddy, I'm going to school tomorrow! And Miss Prentiss likes your tummy and cheeks!"

He tried to return his son's enthusiasm, but what he _really_ wanted was to close the door and dive back under the covers.


	26. Male Ego

"Hey, Buddy, that's great." Hotch sincerely hoped that Jack knew he was referencing starting school, not what Prentiss had said regarding his body. He could hear muffled snorts and coughs as the rest of the team enjoyed his discomfort. It sounded like J.J.'s voice saying "Bu-u-sted."

Hotch avoided looking at the others. "I'm gonna take a shower, Jack. Come and talk to me." He almost made it out of their sight, but Rossi's voice followed him.

"Don't bother getting dressed, Hotch. It's dinner, drugs, therapy and then sleep again."

Hotch's lips compressed. Somewhere in there he would have to find time for a conversation with Prentiss about inappropriate talk in front of his son.

A short time later, Jack came scampering out of the bathroom. Damp hair and pajamas said he'd showered, too.

Hotch toweled off, put his robe back on, and returned to his bedroom in search of a fresh t-shirt and sweats. He was standing before the closet with its rack of jackets and slacks, considering open rebellion when a tap at the door presaged Rossi's entrance.

Rossi frowned at the sartorial temptation before his friend. "Aaron, be good." Hotch gave him a sidelong look and, with the suffering air of a martyr, dragged out another ragged t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. Rossi watched him dress.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." He tightened the drawstring on his pants and bent to put on socks. "Listen, about last night…I'm really sorry you and Morgan felt you had to stay. I woulda been okay." He straightened and swayed, putting a hand out to steady himself. Rossi was at his side as though he'd never been anywhere else. An arm around his shoulders and a hand at his waist guided him to a seat.

"Sure. Sure, you'd be fine on your own." Rossi leaned down to look him in the eye. Hotch couldn't help grinning; a reaction to the dry tone and subtext: _You're not fooling anyone, Hotch. Least of all me_. Rossi patted his shoulder. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. You're just light-headed. Garcia will take care of that."

"I actually do feel better. Despite all appearances."

"Yeeeaah." Rossi stroked his beard. "Speaking of appearances; you do know you shouldn't take what Jack said the wrong way, don't you?"

"What…that Prentiss is noticing me in inappropriate ways, or that she's saying inappropriate things in front of my son?"

Rossi noticed that he didn't look or sound particularly angry. The reading he got was darker, more morose. He raised Hotch's chin and studied him. "You can't tell me you've never been aware that women notice you. Even in the Bureau."

Hotch pulled away from his grasp and focused on his own feet. There was a hole in one sock. Haley'd always made sure to weed those out. He never seemed to remember to do things like that on his own.

Rossi pulled the chair Morgan had occupied the previous night closer. He sat before Hotch and leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees.

"Ho-o-tch. What are you thinking?" His friend's eyes darted, but avoided connection. "Come on. Spill it. Dinner's getting cold and Garcia will be disappointed if you don't have an appetite." Still nothing. _Whatever it is, it's really bothering him_. Rossi reached out and shook one of Hotch's knees. "Talk."

"I don't like being made fun of, that's all."

"What!?" Rossi leaned even closer, squinting at the Unit Chief as though that would expose his concealed thought processes. "Who's making fun of you?"

As J.J. had said earlier, _Bu-u-sted_. He might as well get it all out. Hotch sat up straighter. "They're talking about my body, Dave." He raised his chin and looked into Rossi's eyes. "I _know_ how I look now."

Rossi sat back, sighed and half-crossed his arms, one hand again stroking his beard. His eyes traveled over his boss. The pause was long enough for Hotch to resume his study of the tattered sock. When Rossi spoke again, there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice.

"So this _isn't_ about Prentiss saying anything inappropriate. This is about your ego." Hotch looked up, surprised. "Don't deny it. On some deep level, you _like_ being noticed. And now that you've got some scars, your ego is bruised along with everything else and you think you have to hide."

Hotch's single nod was terse. "I look like hell."

Something dawned on Rossi. "You've never really known any woman other than Haley, have you?" The head shake was as truncated as the nod had been. "Have you ever _been_ with another woman?"

"Yeah. A few." Hotch looked up. "But not after marrying. I _never_ cheated on Haley."

"But you've never had a long-term relationship with anyone else." It was a statement, not a question. Rossi's voice grew gentler. "Hotch, women don't engage in girl-talk over men they don't find attractive."

"I saw their faces the other morning. After you and Morgan, you know, kidnapped me? I didn't know anyone was here and I walked out almost naked. They looked…_horrified_."

"And do you know why?"

"Of course I do! I scared them."

"No, son. That's not it. They were 'horrified' by what happened to you, to someone they care about very much. They were sympathizing. That's something else women do with men they like." Rossi sat back and shook his head. "And although I'm sure Jack misinterpreted whatever Prentiss said, I _can_ say that Morgan, Reid and I watched her the other night when you wanted her to lead you through that breathing thing. She definitely didn't find your body scary." Hotch began to frown.

"And before you go getting the wrong impression again, she was _not_ inappropriate then either." Rossi stood up and turned toward the door. "That's another thing women do. There's nothing you can do about it, Hotch. And whether you believe it or not, they're still going to sneak looks at you and enjoy doing it. And you're still going to be the subject of girl-gossip."

He turned with his hand on the door knob. "They'll still like you. You can't change women, Hotch. Don't even try."

_So now I can't fight them __**and**__ I can't change them. The list is growing…_

Before Rossi could leave, there was a light tapping at the door. He opened it to reveal Prentiss.

"Hotch, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Rossi answered for him. "Sure. He's all yours." He ushered her into the room. As he left, Hotch noticed his smile bordered on a smirk.

Rossi closed the bedroom door, leaving Prentiss alone with Hotch when it might be the last thing he wanted. He rejoined the others in the kitchen area.

"Is he okay?" J.J. was the first to ask what they were all wondering.

"He'll be fine." Rossi went to help Garcia serve a casserole that was redolent of salmon and herbed potatoes. "It's just another one of those aftermaths of an attack that you never think about unless you're the victim."

"Anything we can do?"

"No. No, I think if we continue the way we are, everything'll work itself out." Rossi turned his attention to dinner. "Reid, set some places. Morgan, how about opening a bottle of wine? Something white. None for Hotch. J.J., you get to drug him."

Prentiss hesitated. Hotch wasn't looking at her. He was _fidgeting_…something he never did…with the drawstring on his pants. She sat where Rossi had, right in front of him and searched his face, trying to judge his mood. The eyes were downcast. That made it difficult.

"Hotch, about what Jack said; he got it wrong. But kids do that, ya know?"

"It's okay, Prentiss. You don't have to explain."

"I want to. I don't want things to be awkward or…_uncomfortable_…here or at work, okay?" He looked up. She thought he probably wanted the same.

"I said that I thought you had great cheek_bones_." Did the corners of his mouth quirk just the slightest bit upward?

"And as for the tummy remark…" Prentiss took a deep breath and released it. "I've seen your body and I was just saying that you were in good shape, that's all." He raised his eyebrows. It occurred to Prentiss that he might be enjoying this. She couldn't stop the grin that began to usurp her solemn 'let's talk' expression. It just kept growing wider. It almost hurt. It _did_ hurt.

"Hotch, it was totally respectful…professional…um…_admiration_. Honest." He _was_ trying to keep a smile under control! Prentiss almost managed to muffle her own chuckle. She stood up and took his arm, encouraging him to rise, too.

"Come on. Let's go eat. And afterwards I'll do that breathing thing with you again and you can see for yourself."

"I'd like that." Hotch's smile spread a shade beyond shy.

"Me, too." She saw the flicker of concern in his eye. "But not like _that_. Appropriately…professionally…okay?"

Hotch nodded, but couldn't help wondering if 'appropriate' and 'professional' were different in girl-world.


	27. Maybe It's the Drugs

Hotch couldn't remember the last time the whole team had dined together when they hadn't been on a case. The cherry-on-top was Jack sitting beside him. Having turned his four-year-old nose up at Garcia's salmon casserole, Jack was partaking of a tuna salad sandwich, which J.J. told him was pretty much the same thing the adults were eating. Garcia had responded with a haughty sniff, but had still promised Jack the first piece of chocolate pie; a special treat she had made to tempt her boss' appetite.

Hotch was letting the others carry the conversation. He was a little tired of all the attention he'd been getting and the concern he feared he'd engendered. It was nice to have no one notice him. It felt safe and peaceful. It didn't last long. When his plate was almost clean, Garcia appeared at his side and scooped another serving onto it. He looked up at her, wondering how long she'd been keeping track of his progress.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. Apparently, the first impulsive kiss she'd given him had opened the floodgates. "Eat…sir." He couldn't help smiling back. The happy expression remained on his face as he concentrated on his second helping. He kept half an ear on the laughter and chatter surrounding him. Until he realized everyone had gone quiet.

Hotch looked up. All eyes were on him. He faltered. They were all beaming at him.

"You're smiling." J.J.'s tender voice broke the silence.

"You're eating." Garcia sounded triumphant, vindicated in light of the younger Hotchner's preference for tuna.

"You look good." Prentiss' depthless, dark eyes were unusually warm and kind.

Hotch had a hard time swallowing under such scrutiny. He was grateful when Rossi broke the spell.

"J.J., did you get his medicine?" She responded by reaching over and depositing three tablets and the bottle of cough suppressant in front of his plate.

Morgan saw Hotch's grimace. "Take it, man. You'll need it when Pretty Boy works you over again." Reid's sour expression told everyone that he did _not_ consider this a laughing matter.

Hotch looked once around and took his medicine. It was a tacit way of saying 'I trust you.' Reid cleared his throat.

"Hotch, after last night, if you want me to get you some sessions with a real doctor, I'd be glad to." His glance at his boss was quick, furtive, almost ashamed.

"I'd _really_ like to get out of this place for a while, but not to go to any more clinics or doctors or hospitals. If you wanna back down, Reid, that's fine, but do it because you _want_ to, not because you think you've done anything wrong." Prentiss was tracking the conversation, her eyes flicking between Reid and Hotch.

"What happened last night?"

"No big deal. I guess I maybe sorta freaked out a little and Reid got worried. That's all." No one elaborated. Prentiss shrugged, took a sip of wine and decided to fish for more information.

"Musta been so-o-ome freak-out." Awkward silence. Rossi was really glad when his phone chimed.

He excused himself and stepped away. His eyebrows rose when he saw the caller ID. The others listened, but couldn't make out the low-voiced conversation. Ever the gentleman, Hotch endeavored to give him some privacy.

"J.J., you the one who set Jack up for school?" She nodded.

"I hope that's okay. I just thought it'd help you out and be good for him."

"I appreciate it. I didn't even know school was in session yet."

"It's a special program. I've been looking around for something for Henry in a couple of years and I found this very…progressive…place that lets kids learn at their own pace and encourages them to find what really interests them. It's not just the usual pre-school kind of stuff." She reached over and ruffled Jack's hair. "He's gonna _love_ it. I wish they'd had a place like that when _I_ was starting school."

"And tomorrow's his first day." Hotch looked sadder. "I wish I could take you, Buddy."

"'Sokay. Miss Jarreau said she's gonna take me and bring me home, too." Jack didn't seem overly concerned. It sent a pang through Hotch's heart. He was used to his daddy being gone. This was just one more major event in his life that would be fatherless. Hotch swallowed. _Haley would have been so proud_.

They could all guess what dark road their boss was traveling. Garcia, as always, revealed the silver lining. "But, sir, you'll be here when he gets home and he can tell you all about it." She rose to clear Jack's plate and give him the promised first piece of pie. "Jack, you'll have _so_ many new adventures tomorrow! You'll have to make extra sure you remember _everything_ so you can tell your daddy."

As Garcia portioned out dessert, Rossi, looking pleasantly surprised, returned to the group. He sat down and picked up a fork, admiring the slice of pie before him. "Well, _that_ was unexpected." The others waited for elaboration. "That was Strauss."

Hotch felt himself wither inside; that cringing sensation the Section Chief always inflicted on him. Only Morgan saw Prentiss and Garcia exchange concerned looks.

"And?" Hotch readied himself for an axe to fall.

"A-a-and, the Director apparently agreed to my request about keeping the team close to home." Rossi looked up and smiled. He enjoyed being the bearer of good news. It didn't happen often. "A-a-and, he's taken it a step further and is letting the whole team stand down for two weeks. A-a-and, it will _not_ be deducted from individual vacation time." Rossi took a bit of pie before glancing back at Aaron. "And you were worried…"

Again, only Morgan saw relief chased by a gleeful sort of triumph in the complicit looks shared between Prentiss and Garcia.

Dishes had been washed. Leftovers had been stored. Jack was tucked away, dreaming about teachers who all looked like his mother. Hotch was subdued, medication taking its toll on a metabolism that couldn't seem to acclimate to drugs. Morgan cornered Garcia in the kitchen.

"Alright, Baby Girl; what's up with you and Prentiss?"

"Up? Uh,…nothing…Nothing's up…Up?..No,…not up…nothing." She was a terrible liar, especially when confronted by her not-so-secret crush.

"You _know_ I'll find out. You _know_ I have ways." Yes, she _did_ know. Garcia considered her options. She could stick to her guns, keep her secret and be hounded by a relentless Morgan; or she could confess and enjoy the feeling of including him in her very small, elite circle of conspirators. He smiled and she was lost.

From across the room, Prentiss saw Derek turning on the charm. She groaned inwardly. In her professional opinion it was now just a matter of time before every unsavory detail of their nocturnal exploits reached Rossi or Hotch.

She wondered if she should use the free time the Director had bestowed upon them to explore other employment opportunities. Preferably foreign ones.

The ultra sound machine had been lifted over the doorsill and rolled to Hotch's bedside. Reid was waiting his turn, watching along with the others as Prentiss began to walk a shirtless Hotch through her relaxation technique. Something told him it wasn't going quite as smoothly as it had in the past.

"Deepen your breathing." Prentiss' voice was soft, hypnotic. "I'm putting my hand on your stomach…Breathe deep…deep enough to move my hand."

But instead of relaxing, everyone could see Hotch's stomach muscles tighten. Then they…bounced…ever so slightly. Prentiss' hand gave them a light, reprimanding smack.

"You're laughing, Hotch. Stop it!" She'd been concentrating on watching him breathe. She glanced over at his face. Even in the darkened room, she could see a glint beneath almost-closed eyelids.

"And you're peeking!" She expelled a puff of air in exasperation. "C'mon. Relax. Try again." She rubbed his stomach gently. "C'mon! Get serious or we'll be here all night."

"Promise?"

Rossi and Morgan had been observing from the doorway. They looked at each other, eyes widening.

Rossi shook his head. "I cannot believe he just said that."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Drugs?"

"Hope so."


	28. Parent to Parent

When Reid's turn came to work on Hotch, Prentiss had finally managed to relax him. He wasn't asleep, but his breathing was slow and he didn't react when Reid applied the ultra sound nozzle with its chilly gel to his ribs. Reid was hypersensitive to any signs Hotch might give that signaled discomfort. After a few minutes, when he shifted slightly, Reid was instantly alert.

"Hotch? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just feels weird." The voice was graveled and heavy sounding.

Reid wasn't taking any chances. He adjusted the frequency to a lower level and lightened the pressure he was using.

"Better?"

"Mmmm." Reid took that as an affirmative. He continued the slow, spiraling circles he'd read were the most effective use of sound waves in the healing process. He noticed the bruising was fading from black to purple with greenish-yellow at the outer edges. Hotch's breathing was much better. _He's a fast healer_. _I wonder how he's doing on the inside_. He thought that Hotch's predilection for sleep was an indicator of a heart still overflowing with sorrow.

A half hour later, Reid wiped up the gel and stored the attachment he'd used, leaving the machine ready for another day. He thought Hotch had fallen asleep and tip-toed toward the door.

"Reid?" Hotch wasn't out quite yet.

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh. Thanks. For doing this. For…everything."

"Not a problem. Since you're awake, what'd'ya think about trying to release that muscle spasm again? This time just Morgan doing it." he hastened to add.

"'Kay."

Reid found that the others had left, except for Morgan, who planned on taking the night watch.

"You wanna try working on his back again?"

"Isn't he asleep?"

"Not quite, but he'll never be more relaxed than he is right now."

"Okay. Let's do it."

Reid balked. "Not me. Just you." Morgan looked as though he might argue. "Seriously, I didn't need to be there last time. You know what to do and I think part of what went wrong was the two of us kind of overwhelmed him."

"So are you taking off then?"

"What? No! I'm staying until it's over and I know he's okay."

Morgan shrugged, shook his head at Reid's overweening guilt and went into Hotch's bedroom.

Reid was right. Hotch was as close to sleep as he could get without actually losing consciousness. He roused a little when Morgan sat on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man, you up for this?"

"Mmmm."

Morgan found it a little more difficult to maneuver and much harder to target the necessary muscles when the working surface was a mattress instead of a hardwood floor.

"Hotch, I'm gonna try this a different way." The utter lack of interest displayed by his drowsy boss forestalled further explanation. Morgan reached under Hotch and pulled him into something very like a hug. Careful not to exert too much pressure on the damaged ribs, he supported Hotch's upper body against his own. Running one hand over his back, Morgan located the offending muscles and dug into them.

If Hotch had been almost asleep, he wasn't anymore. Agony electrified him while stealing his breath and power of speech. Morgan had some firsthand knowledge of injuries that came in handy from time to time. He twisted into the spasm and felt Hotch go limp against him.

Morgan could feel his boss panting; his usual reaction to the shock of relief after so many months of pain. Morgan held him and tried to manipulate the muscles from their hard, central knots outward.

"Tell me if this hurts too much, Hotch." After a moment of silence, Morgan thought he'd better double check. "Are you okay? Can you talk?"

"I'm fine." It sounded strained.

"I can stop if you want."

"No. If this'll get rid of it, just do it."

Morgan went over the muscles several times, slowly forcing them smooth. When he thought Hotch had had enough, he just held him for a few minutes, reminding him to imagine each breath moving into the pain.

"I'm gonna lay you down now. I don't know how fast the pain'll come back. Ready?"

"Do it."

Morgan held Hotch close. Leaning over, he laid him back on the bed. He sat up, but let his hand linger on Hotch's back, trying to gage the spasm's return. He was gratified to feel a difference. He didn't think the amount of contortion was as cruel, nor had it returned with the speed he'd felt the previous night.

Judging by Hotch's slow smile, he'd felt a difference, too.

"Well wha'd'ya know…Reid _was_ onto something." Morgan grinned and patted the Unit Chief's chest. "We'll have to do this a few more times; see where it goes." Hotch nodded, but didn't seem to have the energy for much more.

"You need anything, Hotch?"

"No."

Morgan watched him for the space of a few breaths. _He's still weak. Gets tired fast. Pneumonia's still got him_. He pulled the covers up, tucking them around his boss, and headed for the door.

"Morgan?"

"Yeah, Hotch?"

"Thanks. Really."

"Any time. G'night."

"Night."

Hotch was asleep before the door closed.

Reid was pacing around the living room. When Morgan appeared, he stopped, anxious for an account of how things had gone.

"Congratulations, kid! You were right. I think it worked and he's feeling a little bit better."

Reid's relief was almost as dramatic as Hotch's when the spasm had released.

Morgan sent the doctor home and resumed his lonely vigil. He didn't think Hotch needed it anymore, but he wasn't ready to desert his post just yet. His concern had shifted from providing aid to keeping his boss from venturing out too soon. If Derek Morgan had any say, there would be no chance of relapse in Aaron Hotchner's extended recovery.

J.J. arrived the next morning to find a yawning Morgan pouring milk over Jack's breakfast cereal. She sent him home, promising to watch over Hotch after dropping Jack at school. Jack was excited. Everything was going to plan until Hotch emerged from his room. He was wearing jeans and a jacket over his t-shirt. Tennis shoes announced his intention to escape the apartment.

"Just where do you think you're going?" She didn't have to work at sounding stern. Keeping boys in line somehow came naturally to J.J.

Hotch's eyes were fastened on Jack. "It's his first day. I wanna come, too."

"No."

"Please?"

"You know how it works, Hotch. You can't go running all over the place when you're still sick. Not _as_ sick, but still…sick." She could tell he was crafting an argument. She waited to see what he'd come up with, confident that it wouldn't sway her.

"J.J., if I had let Reid set up therapy appointments for me with a real doctor, I'd be going out every day. All I'd be doing is sitting in a car, going from point A to point B, but I'd be going out. Right?"

This was not good. He was using airtight logic. She nodded once.

"So how would this be different? I'll just sit in the car and we'll go from point A to point B. But I'll get to see my son going to school for the first time." She crossed her arms, but Hotch could tell she was weakening. "There'll never be another 'first day of school' for him." She swallowed; he was making progress. "Think how you'd feel if it was Henry." Her eyes looked damp. _Score!_

"Okay. But you eat something and take your meds first." He nodded, looking as eager as Jack. "And you have to promise not to tell anyone I let you do this." He nodded again. To demonstrate his good faith, he wolfed down a bacon muffin-a-la-Garcia and devoured his medication. By the time J.J. had Jack ready, Hotch was looking for his car keys, puzzling over where he might have left them.

"Don't bother. Morgan took them." When Hotch seemed irritated, she shook her head and fished her own keys out of her purse. "Did you really think he wouldn't know when you were about to make a break for it?" J.J. opened the door and ushered Jack into the hallway. She looked back at her slightly abashed boss. "Come on, Profiler-Boy, let's go."

Hotch was on his best behavior. He remained in the car and let J.J. walk Jack to his classroom. He buttoned up his jacket when she told him to, even though it was warm outside. But secretly, he was fighting against the groggy, heavy feeling the medications always gave him. There was something else he wanted to do. He didn't think it would be too hard to sell J.J. on it, but he wanted to look alert and fit in case that would help him win his case.

J.J. returned, Jack-less, and smiled at Hotch as she buckled herself in.

"Well, that's it. He's in the system and his education has officially begun." She looked into Hotch's eyes, parent to parent. "Let's get you home."

"J.J., I need to do something else first."

She stopped with the key in the ignition. "We're supposed to go from point A to point B _only_. Remember? That's the deal."

"I need to talk to Haley."

The look J.J. gave him was so very, very sad. "What do you mean?"

"I need to tell her Jack started school." His voice caught on his son's name. "J.J., I _need_ to. I can't explain it. I just…_need_ to. Please."

J.J. swallowed hard and turned the key. The engine caught and she pulled away from the curb. "Alright. But I'm standing by you the whole time, okay?"

"You always do." He almost whispered it.

So they drove toward the cemetery where Haley Hotchner was waiting for the man she'd loved above all others to tell her the latest news about their son.


	29. Eternally Yours

They drove in silence.

J.J. was wondering if she was doing the right thing, taking someone the team had assigned to house-arrest beyond the agreed-upon confines. Nor was it just the activity that concerned her. Jack's first day at school and Hotch's first visit to Haley's grave since the funeral were emotional touchstones. They could strike at his very core. Hard. She sneaked glances at him as she drove, but he was in full concealment mode.

Hotch didn't know how to classify his feelings, so he just let them flow and concentrated on maintaining a stoic exterior. If J.J. saw the least sign of weakness, he was afraid she'd put on the brakes, literally as well as figuratively. He didn't know why, but he _had_ to visit Haley today. She was calling him. He noticed the proliferation of florist's shops as they neared the cemetery.

"Can we stop for flowers?" He thought he might be pushing it, but he felt _wrong_ about showing up empty-handed.

"Sure." J.J. pulled into a parking spot before a pristine, white-bricked storefront, its windows decked with foliage and blossoms. "You stay here." She gave him a fierce look, but Hotch knew better than to defy her.

"Let me give you some money." He reached toward the pocket where his wallet would normally reside. It was a reflex. Morgan had confiscated Hotch's wallet along with his keys as a precaution against just such extracurricular journeying. He gave J.J. a sheepish look.

"I'll have to owe you."

J.J. smiled and patted his arm. "You can pay me back another way." Hotch's eyebrows rose. "When I give you your medicine, don't growl. Just take it. Especially if Jack's watching." She saw his blank look, partially due to the meds in question. "It's not good for Jack to see you making a fuss. He'll do the same someday and you'll regret having given him the example."

"Okay. But I'll still owe you."

J.J. grabbed her purse and got out. "Roses? Red and white?"

Hotch looked up, wondering how she knew. "Please."

Inside the store she purchased six white roses to represent the purity of love and the courage with which Haley gave her life, sacrificing herself to buy Jack time to do whatever Aaron had meant by 'working the case.' J.J. added six more roses of the deepest, velvety red for the passion the Hotchner's marriage had enjoyed. It was common knowledge, but something the team never mentioned to their leader. One only had to see his eyes follow her, or hers follow him to feel it. Even normally oblivious Reid seemed able to recognize the sexually charged air between Hotch and Haley. She added baby's breath for Jack's completion of their family. She added the delicacy of fern fronds just because she thought Hotch would like them.

When J.J. placed the bouquet in his lap, Hotch felt all the emotion he'd been covering gather into a painful lump. As J.J. buckled herself in and started the engine, she looked at him. He kept his face hidden, turned toward the passenger side window, as if he were merely watching something outside. But his posture was too straight. His hands had a slight tremble as they cradled Haley's flowers. His shoulders barely, barely shook. She could tell he was trying to keep them still.

"It's okay, Hotch." She heard him take a deep breath and release it in a shudder. "It's just me."

"I know." His voice cracked, but only once before he got it under control. "Thank you, J.J."

She reached over. Although she couldn't see his face, she knew where the tears would be. She touched her fingers to the corner of his eye. She was right. Her fingers came away wet.

J.J. looked down the street to the cemetery's entrance. Her voice was soft, weaving a safe place for honest answers. "Are you sure you want to do this? We can go home. Come back another time."

"Can't explain. _Need_ to go there now."

"Then that's what we'll do."

Once inside the grounds, J.J. refused to let Hotch walk to Haley's grave. She drove down the paved aisle that would bring them as close as possible.

Hotch got out, hands splayed around Haley's roses, trying not to crush their fragile beauty. He swayed. J.J. came to his side and slipped an arm around his waist. Together they covered the short distance to the site.

For a moment, Hotch was confused. It had only been a few days since the funeral. His eyes searched for the temporary marker bearing Haley's name, indicating where her headstone would be placed. The small card clipped into a wire frame should have stood out. He couldn't find it. Slowly, they realized Haley had a stone. J.J. looked at Hotch's blank expression.

"That was fast. It usually takes longer."

"Yeah." He sounded like an echo of himself.

Hotch had left the tombstone and epitaph up to Haley's mother and sister. Since the divorce, he didn't feel as though his input would be welcomed in such a personal decision. The two friends stepped closer, moved to where they could read whatever the last words concerning Haley were. J.J. felt a tremor run through Hotch and tightened her grip around his narrow waist.

Beneath Haley's name and the dates of her birth and death, the words her family had deemed most important, how Haley wished to be known for eternity, were sculpted deeply.

Beloved wife of Aaron

Loving mother of Jack

Hotch's voice was hoarse. "I guess we're not divorced anymore."

The best J.J. could do was support him to the ground and crouch beside him as he shook in silent pain. _Dewdrops_, she thought. _Tears look like dew when they fall on flowers_.

Hotch's grief was a swift storm; deep and debilitating. It left him drained. J.J. was alarmed at his pallor. She took the damp roses and placed them at the base of Haley's stone. It was difficult to get him to his feet.

"Come on, Hotch. Let's go home." He didn't resist, but he couldn't seem to help.

When they reached his apartment, he was more absent than she'd ever thought possible. J.J. removed his jacket.

"Hotch, take off your shoes and jeans. You need to look like we never left here." He was an automaton, but he managed to follow her instructions. When he was done, he sat on his bed and stared at nothing. J.J. sat beside him. His voice was thick.

"I tried so hard to make it work with her. I don't know. Maybe she was right and I should've quit my job."

"Then you'd've been unhappy. Haley didn't want that either."

Hotch shook his head, vacant-eyed. "I don't know. I can't think clearly and…I just don't know."

J.J. watched his profile. _He is so lost_. "Hotch, if you can't think clearly, let me tell you how I see it. It's not my business, but maybe it'll help." She twisted around so she could see him better.

"Haley didn't want you to be unhappy. She wanted you to want the same things _she_ did, but you're two different people. It's just not possible for different people to have the exact same wants. Not when you dig below the surface." J.J. couldn't tell if her words had any impact. Deep discussions were Rossi's specialty, not hers.

"Look, you both wanted Jack to have a happy childhood, right? Well, to Haley that might mean playdates and music lessons. To you it might mean campouts and soccer. Both views are valid. No one's wrong. You're just…different." Hotch was still. She didn't know if he was hearing her.

"Hotch, it's just my opinion, but I always thought you and Haley would get back together. I think she would have realized that she and Jack were way better off with you than without you." That got a reaction.

Hotch turned and looked at J.J., her face inches from his. Close enough for him to see her genuine concern. Close enough for her to see pure misery.

"It's not your fault, Hotch." He turned away. Not vacant, but not present either. After a few minutes, J.J. looked at her watch and sighed.

"We've got a few hours before I have to go get Jack." She shifted position. "C'mere." Wrapping both arms around him, she pulled him closer. The arm across his chest held onto his far shoulder. With the hand of the arm behind him, J.J. pressed his head down toward her shoulder. There was a moment of resistance, but then she felt him relax against her, the full weight of his head resting on her. Instinctively, she placed her chin on top of his hair and rocked, occasionally pulling back to look down at his face. Rossi was the talker. J.J. was better at hugs.

"Sometimes it just helps to be held." She let one hand massage its way across his back and found the muscle spasm that had caused so much trouble. With no intention of doing anything drastic, J.J. pressed on the surrounding area, gently pushing and smoothing. When the muscle let go and Hotch groaned with relief, it was difficult to know who was more surprised.

"J.J.?"

"Shhhhh. Shhhhh." She continued to massage him, unable to understand how his muscles had seemed to move on their own, expecting them to knot up again at any moment. Hotch felt…tentative…in her grasp. She knew he was cautious of making any move that would bring the pain back. She glanced at her watch again.

"Hotch, it's been twenty-five minutes. Maybe it's gone."

"Oh, God, J.J. What did you do?"

"Nothing. I don't know. Really nothing." She held her hand flat and firm against his back. "Sit up slowly." He did. His expression couldn't be called 'happy,' but the relief and gratitude with which he looked at her turned the day from sorrowful to joyful, for J.J. at least.

"J.J., thank you."

"I didn't do anything. It wasn't me, Hotch."

"Then…what?"

J.J. shook her head. She ran her hand over his back again, verifying the spasm's absence.

"I don't know. Reid can probably give you medical explanations, but I think…I wonder…"

"What?"

"This all started with Foyet's first attack. That's also when Haley and Jack were removed from your life…taken from you."

"And?"

"And today…Hotch, today you kind of got her back."

Hotch and J.J. looked at each other. There was no more to say. Neither believed in things occult or magical, but for the first time in months Hotch could stand tall and breathe almost normally, without pain. His back muscles felt sore; the aftermath of cruel overuse. For the next few days, J.J. wouldn't be able to pass him without running a hand over him to reassure herself that he was okay…at least as far as his muscle spasms were concerned.

When J.J. left to pick Jack up from school, she buckled her seatbelt and placed her hands on the steering wheel. She closed her eyes for a heartfelt moment, feeling it was the right thing to do.

"Thank you, Haley," she whispered. "He still loves you, too."


	30. A Gentleman First

After J.J. left, Hotch found himself alone for the first time in days. For the first time in months, his pain was underscoring his life, rather than overwhelming it. He knew he was still fragile. His reaction to the sight of Haley's headstone had proved that, but he could believe that it was possible to feel better. At least physically. He wasn't sure what was going on with his mental and emotional health. He knew he was deeply troubled, but he couldn't separate out the different causes. Every time he tried, he felt panic. It was like running full tilt into a brick wall. There was no alternate path that he could see, and every encounter hurt. There was no way around, no way through, no way over or under. It stopped him, hurt him and threw him back; daring him to try again; contemptuous of his inability to break through.

Hotch looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. If for no other reason, he had to break through that wall for Jack's sake. And the team. He owed them so much and they obviously wanted him healed and whole. _And me?_ he thought. _Even if I don't feel it, I have to pretend to believe I'm worth the effort, too_. He felt that to do otherwise would be an affront to the team; a rudeness. He'd never examined that aspect of his upbringing, but Hotch was first and foremost a gentleman. He treated everyone, even Strauss, with a natural graciousness._ I have to pretend. Maybe someday I'll feel differently_.

He didn't know yet how significant that realization was.

With an unanticipated two weeks off, the team had no other plans than to look after Hotch. They correctly assumed that since the Director hadn't docked their vacation time, he had intended them to stay close to one of the agents he genuinely liked as a person as well as an employee. It was an unspoken agreement that, whatever else the day held, they would meet at Hotch's place for dinner.

When Rossi arrived that evening, he found Garcia preparing a feast, while Hotch and Jack were deep in discussion about the amazing world of kindergarten. The boy's enthusiasm and energy pleased him. They were healthy, normal reactions to a healthy, normal child's world. Hotch, on the other hand, was going through the motions; acting for his son's benefit._ Something happened today_. Rossi stood behind the Unit Chief and squeezed his shoulders with gentle hands. Hotch hesitated, seemed to lose his place for a moment, but continued on before Jack could detect that his father wasn't entirely focused. By the time the others arrived, Hotch had put Jack to bed, confident his son was looking forward to his future as a student.

Rossi spent most of dinnertime observing the others. Hotch was subdued and looked tired. J.J. stayed close to him. Something was going on between Garcia and Prentiss. Morgan was also involved, but peripherally. Only Reid's behavior matched every facet of Rossi's individual profiles for his team. _So secrets are being made and kept, but as usual, Reid is innocent of them_. Secrets could draw people together. They could also force them apart. Even rip them apart. Rossi decided it was best to clean house and start fresh.

Hotch's appetite was flagging again. When J.J. put his medicine before him, it looked as though he'd try to talk his way around her. But she raised an eyebrow fraught with meaningful subtext and Hotch's arguments died before he could even give them breath. J.J. also ran her hand over Hotch's back at every opportunity. It looked like something other than the simple affection she was so adept at giving.

"How're you doing, Aaron?" Rossi saw the question drew J.J.'s attention as well.

"Fine. Just kinda tired."

Morgan looked up. "Sounds like early-to-bed might be a good thing, my man. Reid and I can work on you soon as you're ready."

J.J. spoke up. "Actually, I think we might have maybe gotten some of the kinks out of his back. Sort of."

Morgan and Reid exchanged glances. It was a race to see who could reach Hotch first. Rossi watched as they pulled him to a standing position and felt along his spine. When he saw Hotch sandwiched between Morgan's powerful hands, one on his back, one against his ribs, he called a halt to the examination.

"Morgan! Be careful. Both of you need to give him some room. Now."

It took Hotch a moment to regain his balance when they released him. Rossi shot chastising looks at them. "Aaron, if you're done eating, go get ready for bed. Reid, Morgan, sit down." He waited until Hotch was behind the closed bathroom door before continuing. "Someday, when you people have been in this business as long as I have, you'll realize how useless it is to try to keep secrets in a close-knit group like this." He almost laughed at the various faces of innocence. The only one that rang true was Reid's. "When he comes out, we'll say our 'goodnights.' Then Prentiss, you go pat his tummy or whatever it is that makes him happy. Reid, you can work on him, too. The rest of you are going to stay and have a very quiet come-to-Jesus meeting. Everything on the table. Especially if it impacts Hotch in any way whatsoever. Clear?" Rossi was reminded of a car he'd seen earlier in the day. Its back window had been filled with noddy-dogs, all bobbing their heads in unison.

"I don't get it." Reid was watching the others' acquiescence. He had no idea what it all meant.

"You don't need to. You're a good kid." Rossi let him off the hook. Prentiss didn't.

"Yeah, Reid. Except when you're a weasel." She still didn't like the buzzing, humming, hulking ultra sound presence in the bedroom.

"And once Reid has him, I want you back out here, too, Emily." Feeling vindicated, Reid raised his chin and looked down his nose at Prentiss. She countered by curling her lip at him. Rossi just sighed.

When Hotch returned he could sense something was off. Prentiss was too eager to escape into his bedroom. He could feel relief pouring off her. He stood, looking at the others grouped around the counter that passed for a dining area. There were ragged versions of 'good night' and 'sleep well,' but the only ones who met his eye with no sign of discomfort were Rossi and Reid.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. Go to bed, Hotch." Rossi had a resigned calm about him. "We're just going to have a little talk. Nothing for you to worry about." When he didn't move, Rossi motioned to Prentiss, already standing at his side. "Take him in, Emily."

"C'mon, Hotch." She put a hand on his arm, but he resisted.

"If you guys are gonna yell at J.J., it's not her fault. I made her do it." He was too worn out from the day and the drugs to notice J.J. hiding her face with both hands. He was also too far gone to catch the sarcasm when she thanked him for standing up for her. As Prentiss pulled him into his room, he thought it was the least he could have done.

After all, first and foremost, Hotch was a gentleman.


	31. Daddy-moments

Reid scrambled after Prentiss as she towed Hotch into his room. When the door was closed, Rossi, Morgan and Garcia turned expectant faces toward J.J.

"Well?" Rossi was glad Hotch had inadvertently selected the first head to be put on the chopping block. The others were anxious to make someone else the target, hoping that if Rossi's scrutiny were deflected, they'd escape altogether. He let them believe it might happen in order to bring peer pressure to bear on the first team member who would testify in this examination of budding secrets. J.J. looked at her hands, alternately wadding and smoothing a napkin.

"In case none of you have realized it," Rossi began, "we'll all be back at work in two weeks. _All_ of us." Covert glances told him he needed to elaborate. "They might not let Hotch back into the field, but there's no way they'll keep him out of the office with none of us left to ride herd on him and with Jack away at school during the day." A few nods indicated agreement. No one could envision Hotch sitting around his apartment watching TV or paging through reading material. Short of hog-tying or handcuffing, the Unit Chief would be at the Bureau as soon as he was left to his own devices.

"When we return, we'll be under observation as a team. This _gratis_ two weeks wasn't only for Hotch. The Director probably thought we all needed a break and I have no doubt his fondest wish is for us to use that time to strengthen our bonds as well as to strengthen our leader." Rossi made eye contact with each individual, ending with J.J. "If we return with a cloud of secrets over our heads, we return as a group of people, not a team. It's my intention to see that we return more unified and fit than anyone expects." He tipped his head toward Hotch's bedroom door. "That man in there deserves nothing less. So…J.J., it's plain something happened today. What did Hotch 'make' you do?"

"Oh, guys…" She felt her heart contract in sympathy, remembering the scene at Haley's graveside. "I let him ride along to bring Jack to school. And then…then he insisted we visit the cemetery." Garcia muffled a gasp with her hands. The others exchanged looks.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Morgan spoke what everyone was wondering.

"I couldn't. I mean, I _could_ have refused, but, guys, you should have seen him." J.J. looked from one to another. "It was weird. It was like he was hearing her call him." She stopped for a steadying breath. "Anyway, when he saw what was on her headstone, he had a hard time."

"The stone was there? Already?" Rossi's eyebrows rose.

"Yeah. It said Haley was his wife." Almost as one, the group reacted with groans and quiet exclamations. J.J. shook her head. "It was rough, but if I had to do it all over again, I'm pretty sure I'd still take him to see her. He just _needed_ it. Like I said; it was weird."

"Well, that explains some of his…distraction…and why he didn't eat much tonight." Rossi leaned forward. "What about the muscle spasm? How did _that_ happen?"

"I don't even know. He was upset when we got back. All I did was hold him and rub his back a little and it let go." J.J. smiled at the memory. "We were both kinda shocked. That's all. That's all I can tell you."

"You shouldn't've let him go out at all." Morgan had no idea how skillfully Hotch had played the parent card.

Rossi interrupted before J.J. could defend herself and escalate discussion to argument. "It's done. I think we should keep him indoors tomorrow, but in the end, if whatever happened got rid of that back problem, then we'll count the whole situation as a win."

The bedroom door opened. Prentiss came out, looking wary as she eyed the group sitting around the counter island.

Rossi motioned toward a chair. "Come sit down. How's he doing?"

Prentiss took a seat, checking each face for anything that would clue her in to the proceedings so far. "He's okay. Like he said, kinda tired and maybe a little off his feed, but…hey!...way to go on getting his muscles to calm down, J.J.! Good job!" Emily hoped to keep attention focused on her colleague. Didn't work.

"We're done with J.J. for now." Rossi regarded Prentiss through lowered lids. "Now tell me what else is going on, Emily." She tried to put on her innocent face; eyes a trifle wider than normal, lips parted as though about to protest unfair accusation. Rossi would have none of it. "Unless I'm mistaken about people…and I rarely am…you and Garcia have been up to something. And unless I'm mistaken about _you_…and I _never_ am…you're the ringleader. Spill it, Agent Prentiss."

One thing was true about Emily Prentiss; she knew when to fold. Choosing as diplomatic wording as possible, she regaled the group with the adventures of her ad hoc team and Hotch's medical record embellishments. When she was finished, she offered no apology, but tried to look contrite. And she waited to see what kind of axe would fall.

To her astonishment and infinite relief, Rossi's shoulders began to tremble and then to shake. At last he bent over and laughed outright. "Kevin Lynch…well, I'll be…didn't know he had it in him…_you_ two, sure,…but _Kevin_?" Prentiss and Garcia allowed themselves to show tentative smiles, still unsure if they'd dodged a bullet. Rossi let them know they had. "If anything like this ever comes up again, come to me first, okay?" He couldn't banish his grin completely, but he tried to underscore his words with the gravity he felt they deserved. "You all put your careers and maybe even your freedom on the line with a stunt like that. If there's a next time, come…to…me. Got it?" Prentiss and Garcia nodded, beginning to believe they were off the hook. They were sure of it when Rossi chuckled and murmured to himself, "Kevin Lynch…'Magnificent specimen!'"

When Rossi's mirth ebbed, he wiped his eyes and turned to look at Morgan. "So, where are you in all this?"

Morgan took great pleasure in shrugging, holding his hands up in a gesture that told of his complete lack of complicity and shaking his head. "Just an innocent bystander after the fact." He leaned closer to Rossi, eyes moving among the distaff members of the team. "But Rossi, I always thought if these ladies wanted to, they could take us down before we knew what hit us. We should warn Reid and Hotch, too. We're in dangerous company."

"Hotch already knows. Reid? Not sure we should scare him that much."

When Reid came out of Hotch's room, only Rossi remained.

"What'd you guys talk about? Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing to do with you, and, yes, you missed a lot." Rossi nodded toward the bedroom. "How's he doing…seriously."

Reid looked back at the closed door. "Not bad. It's gonna take some time yet for effects of the ultra sound to show, but getting that thing off his back makes a big difference. How'd J.J. do that anyway?"

Rossi didn't want to go into it. It was getting late and he preferred to use whatever energy he had left in a different conversation. "Ask her when you see her tomorrow. Let's pack it in for the day." He patted Reid's shoulder, encouraging him toward the front door. "Good night, kid."

Reid left with a mind full of questions. Before night's end, J.J. would be bombarded with them at the speed of cell phone reception.

Rossi saw Reid out, locked the door and checked the alarm. He walked down the hall to Jack's room and smiled at the portrait of peaceful rest a child could make. He returned to the hallway and opened Hotch's bedroom door. He was betting that his friend's mind would be too full of the day's events to let him drift off to sleep just yet. He was right, as he usually was where Hotch was concerned.

"Hey." Rossi sat on the bed and looked down at the sad, thoughtful face. "I hear you had quite a day."

Hotch looked up. "Don't be mad at J.J."

"I'm not."

"I just couldn't miss any more daddy-moments. I'm all Jack has now. I had to see him off on his first day of school." There was a faint smile at the memory, but it faded.

"I hear you went somewhere else, too."

"Had to. Can't explain."

"Then don't." Rossi put a gentle hand on Hotch's chest and made small, massaging motions. After a moment, Hotch sighed in the way Rossi had come to recognize as a release of tension. He let his hand rest, but kept moving his fingers in comforting circles. "I need to know something, Hotch….Did Foyet hurt you in ways other than stabbing?"

Hotch's eyes locked with Rossi's. It took him a minute to process what he was being asked. "Dave, are you asking if I've been raped?"

Rossi shook his head. "No, I don't think you've ever been abused that way." He raised an eyebrow at his hand on Hotch's chest and let a small smile appear. "You like being touched. Physical contact seems to soothe you, not alarm you. I'll admit after being beaten and stabbed I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't want anyone coming near you, but your reactions aren't typical of a rape victim."

"You're profiling me."

"Yes. Be quiet and let me." He watched Hotch relax a little more. "Something else is deep inside you, making you very unhappy. I think it's something Foyet did that reaches back to your childhood." Silence. "Close your eyes, Aaron, and think back. Just remember I'm here and you're safe." Hotch gave another deep sigh and closed his eyes.

"It's the first time Foyet attacked you. I know the pain is terrible, but what else hurts besides the stabbing?" Rossi's fingers kept sending a message of care, tracing light patterns over his friend's heart. Hotch lay still. Just when Rossi thought he might have fallen asleep, he spoke. His voice sounded deep and distant.

"He never stopped talking to me. Not once."

"What did he say?" A sharp intake of breath. Rossi's fingers pressed more firmly, reminding Hotch of his presence, his protection. "I've got you, Aaron. He can't hurt you now."

"He…he said it was all my fault. Everything. All those people who died…" Rapid breathing. Some trembling.

"I'm here, Aaron. I'm here. I'll never let him hurt you again."

"He told me I was worthless. As an agent I couldn't stop him. I couldn't save anyone. As a husband and father, I couldn't protect my family. If I couldn't do my job or keep my family safe, I was a failure as a man." It sounded as though Hotch wanted to cry, but Rossi could tell he was fighting to maintain control. He won the struggle. Opening his eyes, he gave Rossi a look of pure misery. "It's the same thing my father told me. I'm a failure. I'm worthless."

"Damn him. Damn them both." Rossi's voice was soft, regretful. He closed his own eyes for a brief moment before looking into Hotch's. "That's what I suspected. You have to know it's not true. If you don't feel it inside yet, then you have to accept the feelings of those around you as the truth." Rossi removed his hand from its position on Hotch's chest and brushed his hair back from his forehead. "You are loved, Aaron." Rossi continued to gaze down at Hotch and stroke his forehead.

"What are you doing, Dave?"

"Having a daddy-moment. You understand."


	32. Jailbreak

Rossi stayed with Hotch until he fell asleep. He said a silent prayer asking for the wisdom and strength to guide his friend. Crossing himself, he touched his fingers one more time to Aaron's forehead and then let himself out, closing the door as softly as he could. He turned off the lights and stood at the living room window, hands in his pockets, thinking.

There were a few issues that needed to be dealt with. First was Strauss' duplicity. Here, he had to go carefully. He was sure she knew Prentiss had a hand in the failure of her plan to sideline Hotch. She was probably suspicious of an IT member as well. She would undoubtedly narrow the field of suspects down to Garcia and Kevin, although she wouldn't necessarily know that both had been involved. And right now, she couldn't prove anything. Rossi ran his hand over his beard and wondered what the best way would be to let Strauss know that if she tried to destroy Hotch, she'd be taking on the whole team. He decided his native Italian shrewdness would help him give her a subtle, but alarming, warning without providing her any proof of Prentiss' misdeeds.

Rossi thought a trip to St. Sebastian Hospital, followed by a short visit with the Director and a surprise drop-in on Erin Strauss might accomplish wonders for Hotch's future security. After a while, he smiled. When Strauss looked at loyal, trusting Agent Hotchner with his ambition born of a desire to contribute, rather than a desire to rise in the Bureau hierarchy, she probably never would have guessed that behind him stood an heir to subversive, sly plotting unequaled in most cultures. _My people didn't include Machiavelli, Mussolini, or the Mafia for nothing_. Rossi felt a thrill of adrenaline. He might even enjoy this. It was important to have things to look forward to.

Which brought him to the second issue; one he'd been wrestling ever since Hotch had verified his abusive childhood. Rossi wondered what it would take to make Aaron see himself without the distortion his father had imposed on him. _How do you leach that kind of poison out of a man's soul?_ There was no way to know what Hotch would have been if left untouched. For all anyone knew, he might have turned out conceited or shallow, but Rossi doubted that. There was a bone-deep goodness in the man that he'd rarely encountered. Even the corrosive influence of his father hadn't dimmed the light in Aaron. Rossi sighed. The light drew things to it, just as a flame drew moths. He was sure that Foyet, and to a lesser extent, Strauss, had felt compelled to target Hotch because of that illumination. _What a two-edged sword_, he thought. _It draws people who defend you as well as those who'll cut you_.

Rossi wondered if traditional mental therapy might be a good idea, but dismissed the notion. Hotch was far too canny, way too intelligent to fall into a psychologist's verbal net. He'd know exactly what answers to give and how to appear. And Rossi was sure that Hotch's first instinct would be to escape, even if being pinned down would benefit him in the long run.

He rubbed his face and yawned. The puzzle of Aaron Hotchner wouldn't be solved so easily, and certainly not in one night. _Day by day. That's the only way to go. The only way forward_.

Rossi checked once more on Jack and then settled into the sad, plaid easy chair. He was beginning to think he should get one for himself. It really did make a very comfortable place to sleep.

The following days were routine as far as Hotch was concerned. J.J. would come by in the morning and take Jack to school. He would have a few hours to himself before someone would drop by 'just to see how you are' at which point he would be observed until he'd eaten something Garcia had provided and swallowed the medicine he hated. Sometimes he'd be on his own a little more until J.J. brought Jack back. Then he'd spend time listening to every detail of a kindergartner's world.

Hotch loved it. All of it. From finger-painting to story-telling to special surprises like rabbits or hamsters being brought in for an educational visit. It made him realize that he had no fond memories of his own early schooling. The only thing he recalled was dreading going home, but knowing that if he was late, his punishment would be terrible. His ribs still ached and sometimes when he tried to capture memories, he could almost believe his pain stemmed from his father's heavy hand.

Hotch decided he had too much time to think.

Hotch decided he needed a field trip. Anything would do. He set his mind on a simple walk around the neighborhood.

Every evening, Jack would be fed and put to bed. Then the entire team would gather and dine together. Afterwards, Prentiss would relax Hotch…a process she was becoming adept at…and Reid would ply his ribs with ultra sound. The bruising was fading a little more each day, and Hotch said that he was feeling less pain. Everyone seemed satisfied with progress in general.

Hotch thought the time was right. That evening at dinner, he casually addressed Morgan.

"It's time you gave me my keys and wallet back."

Morgan finished chewing and swallowing. He looked Hotch up and down, rose from his seat, pulled Hotch to his feet and lifted the hem of his t-shirt. Morgan leaned to the side, tilting his head right and left. He dropped Hotch's shirt down and resumed his seat and his meal.

"No."

Hotch looked around the group, but the others seemed as puzzled as he was.

"Morgan, I'd like my stuff back."

"Nope. Sorry, man, can't do it."

Hotch's frown deepened. "Care to give me a reason?"

Morgan gestured toward his boss with his fork. "When your ribs aren't sticking out like railroad ties, you'll get your stuff back." Hotch's eyes narrowed, but Morgan wasn't cowed. "No way around it, boss." He turned back to his plate. "If I were you, I'd eat like my freedom depended on it."

The general chuckling didn't lessen Hotch's displeasure. Neither did the second helping of lasagna Garcia slid onto his plate. He sat down and ate, but Rossi and Morgan could tell he wasn't letting the issue go so easily. And Hotch was a resourceful man. They'd have to keep an eye, or maybe several, on him.

The following morning after Jack and J.J. left for school and Rossi, who had been the nightwatch, departed for his own home, Hotch dressed for a brief walk around the block. He was heartily sick of his captivity and saw a little fresh air and exercise as necessary steps at this point in his recovery. Besides, no one would be the wiser.

He had a bad moment at the door of his apartment when he realized if he locked it, he'd be locked out without a key. He left the alarm off and closed the door, telling himself he wouldn't be gone that long and in the days he'd been confined, no one, not even a sales rep, had knocked. After Foyet's surprise ambush, though, he still felt queasy about it. He compromised by placing a few pieces of scotch tape along the doorjamb. When he returned, if they were disturbed, he'd know someone had opened his door. He pushed his uneasiness aside, strode down the hall and exited the building.

Rossi called Morgan as he drove home from Hotch's place.

"Derek, I think he's gonna make a break for it soon."

"Yeah, I think you're right. He's only on his own a couple hours a day, but that's enough for him to do something…I don't know…_stupid_?"

"I prefer 'premature.'"

"Want me to swing by, surprise him so he can't count on a window of opportunity for _premature_ activity?"

"Please. I appreciate it. He will, too…someday, anyway."

"Yeah, well. I'll let ya know if he's being good. Or bad."

"Thanks, Morgan."

Hotch stood on the sidewalk just outside his building's front door. He raised his face to the sunshine and closed his eyes, glorying in the warmth and light that never seemed to penetrate his apartment with its few windows. He stretched his full length toward the sky and could almost remember what it felt like to be a healthy, young animal. _Yes_, he smiled. _Taking a walk is a great idea_.

Hotch breathed deeply and looked around at the people sharing this segment of the city with him. There were a few joggers, dog-walkers, ladies laden with shopping bags, senior citizens taking the air, mothers with strollers. Traffic was light; a sprinkling of cabs, town cars and the odd bicyclist. A perfect time for a walk.

He made it to the curb and was about to turn the corner for the first leg of his planned block-long journey when Morgan's voice sliced through the ambient noise and pinned him in place.

"Hotch! Where the hell do you think you're going?!"

If Hotch hadn't turned toward him, ready to defend his bid for freedom, he might have seen the bike messenger. As it was, the collision was quick and textbook.

Morgan raced across the street from where he'd parked his car. He found the messenger ruefully regarding the torn fabric over his knees and one elbow with the accompanying injury of abraded skin. The bike's front wheel was slightly bent. Hotch was struggling to his feet.

Morgan grabbed one of Hotch's arms to help him up. It wasn't until he put an arm around him and Hotch bit back a scream, that Morgan realized his friend's left shoulder was damaged.

_Damn, damn, damn!_ "C'mon, Hotch, let's get you to the ER. You gotta be checked out."

Hotch started to object, but when the messenger placed a hand on his shoulder as prelude to an apology, pain lanced through him and spots occluded his vision.

"Okay."

Morgan supported Hotch across the street and into his car. As they pulled away from the curb, Hotch turned a sickly grin his way.

"At least I get out for a while."

"Hotch, when I bring you home after this, I'm handcuffing you to your bed."


	33. Of Pink Bears & Pain

Morgan paced while Hotch's shoulder was examined. His acute sense of guilt was tempered by sheer disbelief that Hotch was hurt…again. Morgan wasn't a regular church-goer, but he couldn't help thinking of the story of Job, the blameless soul who suffered calamity after disaster after loss. He'd never believed biblical stories were factual accounts, preferring to think of them as parables, symbolic and open to interpretation. Now he wasn't so sure. Hotch was defying all odds.

Morgan decided not to call anyone yet. He thought it might be better to get the details of the injury and, hopefully, get Hotch home and settled before letting the others know he'd been taken down yet again. _And because I distracted him_. He looked toward the curtained-off area where the ER doctor on call was talking in tones too low for Morgan to distinguish more than an occasional word. He kept a careful watch on the time. He didn't want J.J. and Jack to get home and find an ominously vacant apartment.

Rossi had slept well in Hotch's armchair. Rather than go home, he decided to make his planned visit to St. Sebastian Hospital; the first step in letting Strauss know she'd better back off where Aaron was concerned. Like Strauss, Rossi felt that digital records had more validity than their hardcopy counterparts. Also like Strauss, he wasn't as conversant in computer-ese as those who'd been raised with them. As soon as he disconnected from talking to Morgan, he called Garcia.

"Good morning, Penelope."

"Morning, sir. Is Hotch alright?" She sounded breathless. Rossi had forgotten that a morning call when they were supposedly off-work might be interpreted as presaging an emergency.

"He's fine. I just left him and Morgan's on his way over to scare him straight if he's thinking about sneaking out." Rossi braked at a particularly long traffic light. Morning rush hour was in full swing. "Garcia, what's the best way to get digital copies and carry them around with you?"

"Uh, well, I'd go with a flash drive, sir." Silence told her that Rossi wasn't familiar with the technology that practically flowed through her veins.

"And how do I get a…flash drive, is it?"

"You can use one of mine. When do you need it?"

"Now would be good, if that's okay."

"Uh, sure. I can have one ready for you in a little bit."

"Thanks, Garcia. I'm on my way." Rossi hung up and spent the minutes it took to drive to Garcia's musing about the differences in their respective educations. He wondered if he would have taken a different path had he grown up in front of a monitor and keyboard. He concluded that he wouldn't trade the long hours in libraries, surrounded by the romance of dusty, ancient, gold-leafed tomes for anything.

Twenty minutes later, clad in an outrageous conflagration of tropical blooms masquerading as a terry cloth robe, Garcia handed Rossi his first flash drive. Rossi stared at the small, rhinestone-studded, pink teddy bear nestling in the palm of his hand.

"You've _got_ to be kidding."

"No, sir. But if you don't mind waiting, I could give you a parrot or a blue kitten?"

Rossi chuckled. "No, that's okay. This'll be fine. Now, what, exactly do I need to do to get the data onto it?"

"Well, what kind of stuff are you after? If you don't mind my asking…sir?"

Rossi debated his answer, but since Garcia had been instrumental in the medical records caper devised by Prentiss, he thought it wouldn't do any harm to tell her. "Hospital reports. Hotch's. I'm going to St. Sebastian from here."

Garcia's eyes grew wide behind the lenses of her polka-dot, red and white specs. "W-why? Why are you doing that?...Sir."

"Not to worry. Just a little safeguard in case Strauss tries to trash Hotch again." Garcia looked unconvinced, but this was Rossi. Any plot of his would likely be executed with elegance and would deliver a hard punch to its target. She had to trust him.

"Just go to the records department and tell them what you want. Give them the drive and they'll know what to do. They might not release anything to you, though," she added as an afterthought.

"That's what FBI creds are for." Rossi pocketed the teddy bear and smiled. "Thanks, Penelope. I'll see you tonight at Hotch's?"

She brightened. "Wouldn't miss it. See ya."

"Bye."

Morgan watched Hotch being escorted away for more x-rays. _Guy's gonna glow in the dark if he gets much more_. He decided to pace the halls for a change and left the emergency area. It was his experience that all things medical took hours longer than you'd expect. He wandered from floor to floor, always keeping an ear tuned to any announcements that might request the whereabouts of 'the party accompanying Hotchner.'

Rossi pulled into the parking garage, cut the engine and looked at Garcia's flash drive again. He shook his head and grinned. He should've expected nothing less.

Entering the main doors, he checked the directory for the records department. He was on the right level, but he needed to go all the way across the building. As he walked, he pulled his badge out in preparation. He hoped it had enough official impact. Since Strauss had already obtained copies, he thought it would be acceptable for another FBI agent to repeat the procedure. He'd have to brazen it out, though, when it came time to produce the pink teddy bear.

Rossi was right. Everything went smoothly when he flashed his creds and, in a clipped, don't-mess-with-me voice, said he was supposed to obtain digital copies of medical records for Agent Aaron Hotchner. When he placed Garcia's flash drive on the counter, the records clerk blinked, but did a creditable job of hiding her smile. Rossi tried to look grim and substantial.

The clerk took the drive, plugged it in and began typing, calling up Hotch's reports. Within seconds, she frowned, entered a few more keystrokes and then made a little 'huh!' noise.

"Problem?" Rossi wanted to sound pleasant, but impatient. He'd feel better once the data was safely in his pocket and he was headed for the garage.

"Well, which records do you want? The ones from a few months ago, the ones from just over a week ago, or the ones from today?" She frowned again. "The ones from today aren't complete yet. He's still undergoing tests."

"WHAT?!"

The girl looked a little frightened at Rossi's vehemence. "Aaron Hotchner. He was admitted to the emergency room a little while ago." She squinted at her screen. "Looks like he just got out of imaging and is back in the examination area."

"The _same_ Aaron Hotchner?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you say he is?"

"Back in the emergency room. I don't see that he's been admitted. It's two corridors over that way." She pointed down the hallway.

"Please give me all the records you've got on him. I'll be back." Rossi ran, remembering to toss a 'thank you' over his shoulder as the clerk began filling the sparkling, pink bear with files.

When the attending physician had received the x-ray readings, he returned to the alcove where Mr. Hotchner had been sequestered. Before he had a chance to deliver his diagnosis, the curtains were thrown back and a man tore through to the patient's side, leaning over him with a look of melded anger and fear.

Both men had dark hair, dark eyes. The doctor judged him to be a relative. He tilted his head, indicating the man lying on the gurney. "Yours?"

The visitor looked up and confirmed. "Mine." He turned his attention back to the patient. "Hotch? I'm here. I'm here."

"Dave." The voice was muted, thick.

"I've got him on a pretty heavy dose to kill the pain." The doctor shook his head. "Because what comes next is, well, _painful_." He looked at the man leaning over his patient. "You might want to wait outside for a few minutes."

"I'm not leaving him."

"Then maybe you can distract him for a minute." He stood to the left of the gurney, slipped his arm beneath the injured man's back and raised him, groaning, to a sitting position. He grasped the left arm at the bicep and gave Rossi a meaningful look.

Rossi cupped a hand under Hotch's chin and caught his glazed stare. "Hotch! Look at me…now!"

The doctor wrenched Hotch's dislocated shoulder back into its socket.

Morgan returned to the ER examination area just in time to hear his boss' strangled cry of agony. He pushed through the privacy curtains and froze. He had no idea how Rossi had known where they were. Rossi was wiping perspiration from Hotch's face as the doctor placed his arm in a sling, positioning it by adjusting straps.

"Rossi? How…?"

"Came by for something else," he snapped. "Morgan, what happened?"

"I was too late. He was out already and when I yelled at him…" Morgan shook his head and rubbed his brow. "He got hit by a bike. Hard. I shoulda just let him be."

Rossi sighed. "No time for a guilt complex. Let's just get him home." He looked up at the attending physician. "He _can_ go home, can't he?"

"Sure. Just keep him quiet for the next two or three days. Ice that shoulder for about twenty to thirty minutes every three to four hours. Keep the sling on. I understand he already has painkillers; make sure he takes them." He placed a hand on Hotch's back and rubbed gently. "He should be fine in three to twelve weeks…depends on how quickly he heals. But he should be seen again at the three week mark. Got it?"

"Yeah. Thanks, doc." Morgan moved to Hotch's side opposite from Rossi. "Where's his shirt?"

The doctor reached behind him and handed Morgan a plastic bag with the crumpled t-shirt looking forlorn in the bottom. "Why don't we leave him shirtless for the rest of the day? It'll be painful to put anything on for a while."

"Yeah. Sure." Morgan took the bag. He slipped an arm around Hotch's waist. "Let's get him out of here, Rossi."

Rossi remembered his original reason for coming to St. Sebastian. "Derek, do me a favor and pick up a flash drive from the records department. Just show them your badge and say it's the information about Aaron Hotchner, okay?"

"Uh, okay…you sure you can handle him?" Morgan stepped back.

"I got him. I'll see you back at his place." Rossi helped Hotch off the gurney just as an attendant appeared with a wheelchair. He saw the glimmer of distaste in Hotch's eye. "If you're gonna tangle with bicycles, you're gonna have to take a ride in another kind of two-wheeler. Get in."

Down at the records department, Morgan gave the flash drive suspicious, sidelong glances. "You're _sure_ this is what Agent Rossi brought you?"

"Yes, sir. He was very specific. He wanted all of Mr. Hotchner's records put on his teddy bear."

Morgan thanked the clerk, pocketed the pinkly jeweled bear and tried to look extra masculine as he walked away. It didn't help that he could hear female tittering in his wake.


	34. And Morgan Makes Three

En route to Hotch's apartment, Rossi called J.J. Background noise told him she was in her car, bringing Jack home from school.

"Rossi, what's up?"

"Hotch is. He's with me. Just didn't want you guys to think anything was wrong if you got home before we did." There was a protracted silence. _She knows something happened_.

"Uh, sure. We'll hang out. No problem." _Oh, no_, J.J. thought. She closed the connection and glanced at Jack. His small face scowled at her in a way that left no doubt about his heredity. "Everything's great, Jack. Looks like your daddy got to go out for a while. Maybe we'll beat him home and surprise him when he comes in. How 'bout that?"

Jack raised a Hotchner eyebrow, but it was imitation only. There wasn't any skepticism behind it. J.J. swallowed and focused on the road. Rossi would fill her in later, but she'd have to find a way to shield Jack if the daddy who came through the door was a more battered version of the one who had seen them off that morning. _Poor guy. It's just not fair_.

J.J. was alarmed to find the apartment unlocked. Her sharp, professional eyes noticed the tape along the doorjamb and she smiled. Apparently, Hotch had run away. She couldn't blame him, but in light of the continuing streak of bad luck that stretched before the man, she rather wished they'd put a tracking device on him, or installed an alarm system for unauthorized exit, or nailed the doors and windows shut. She shook the images off and considered what to do with Hotch's son.

After a quick dinner, she decided an early bedtime routine was in order.

"Jack, since Daddy's not here, let's take your bath now. That way when he gets home, you can spend more time with him before bed." Jack nodded, but J.J. sensed he knew she was up to something tricky.

No sooner was the tub filled and Jack splashing about with a plastic pirate ship Uncle Dave had brought him, than J.J. heard the apartment door open.

"We're home!" It was Rossi's voice. He sounded a little breathless. J.J. worried it might mean he was carrying Hotch or exerting himself in some other way that meant Jack's daddy wasn't mobile.

"We're in the bathroom! Out in a bit, okay?" She rushed rinsing and drying. She wanted to preview whatever awaited Jack, so she gave him his pajamas and challenged him to put them on himself, like the big boy she knew he was. She'd be back to check his work in a few minutes.

When she entered the living area, shirtless Hotch was reclining in the old chair, eyes closed, skin pale, arm sporting a brand new sling.

"Oh, Hotch…no." J.J. went to his side and touched his face. The eyes flickered open and he gave her a weak smile.

"Help me make Jack think this is nothing. Please."

"Of course." She returned to the bathroom to supervise any backwards garments or fastening errors. She scooped Jack into her arms and gave him a big, happy snuggle. "Good job, Mr. Hotchner! Now, let's go see Daddy." She turned to the mirror and looked at the reflection of the child's face watching her. "So, Jack, you know how your daddy fights bad guys and sometimes that means he gets banged up a little?"

"Ye-e-e-a-a-h." She hated trepidation in a four-year-old's voice.

"Well, while he was out, he saw something bad and he got a little, bitty, not-much-to-see hurt." She gave Jack a grave, just-between-us look. "He might feel kinda dumb about it, so let's make him feel better, okay?" Jack nodded vigorously. J.J. stepped into the hall and loudly proclaimed "Here we go!" She hoped it would give sufficient warning to Rossi and Hotch for whatever charade they hoped to pull off.

To everyone's relief, Jack didn't seem upset by the addition of a simple cloth sling to his father's repertoire of infirmities. When J.J. put him down by Hotch's chair, she hovered in case the boy did something potentially painful, like clamber up the lanky body before him, or throw himself into the one operational arm.

Hotch drew on every last vestige of strength he had for his son's sake. He tried, and almost succeeded, in projecting his usual deep baritone. He pulled himself a little more erect, smiled as though it were Christmas morning and ruffled Jack's hair with his right hand. Laughing, he nodded at his sling and wrinkled his nose at the boy. "We lose, Jack; it wasn't bad enough for a real cast so you and Ms. Garcia can't decorate it with glitter and paint. You'll have to ask her if she can think of another way to liven this thing up." Jack giggled and all was well.

Rossi and J.J. had a hard time watching for the next hour as Hotch struggled to listen to every detail of Jack's day as he usually did. He tried to make cheerful comments, but they could tell he was fading fast. At the first lull, J.J. reclaimed Jack's attention and asked if he'd like her to read him not one, but _two_ bedtime stories. He accepted with alacrity, kissed his father and Uncle Dave goodnight and let J.J. march him off to his room. She cast one worried look at Hotch, but he kept up the façade until he heard Jack's door close.

Hotch slumped down, wincing and panting. Through pain-narrowed eyes he saw Rossi putting together an ice pack.

"Dave, I need you."

It was so unexpected, Rossi took a moment for the shaky plea to register. But he was at Hotch's side before another gasping breath could be drawn. He knelt and pulled Hotch's weary head against his chest, rocking slightly, hoping his friend could somehow draw strength from him.

"What do you need, Aaron?"

"This. J-just this." Hotch shuddered for a few minutes. Rossi murmured endearments in Italian. It didn't matter if they were understood or not; they were filled with a comfort that was unmistakable.

When Hotch grew calmer, Rossi pulled back and looked into the tired eyes. "Wanna tell me what's going on?" All he got was a head shake. "I think you need to lie down for a little while. Until dinner's ready at least, okay?" A nod this time. It was difficult to help Hotch up. The only place on his left side that could stand pressure was his waist. Rossi managed to get him to his feet by pulling on his right arm. When J.J. returned, she saw them disappearing into Hotch's room.

Rossi knew Hotch wouldn't expect him to leave right away. He helped his friend down and placed a pillow partially under his left elbow so he could rest without torqueing the shoulder. He took his customary place at Hotch's side and placed his hand on the bare chest, tracing gentle circles until he heard the Unit Chief's expected deep sigh and felt the tension drain from him.

"_Now_ do you wanna tell me what's going on?"

"My whole life I feel like…like I'm being punished. And I don't know what I did wrong."

"You're not being punished."

Hotch's eyes were wide with sincerity. "_Look_ at me! I'm a mess. Everything I try to do goes wrong." He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow again as Rossi continued to soothe him with the lightest of touches. After a few minutes, he looked up at the compassionate face leaning over him. "Okay, I know I'm not being punished and I'm wallowing in self-pity right now, but, Dave, I don't know how much more I can take." Now Rossi looked worried.

"Hang on. You owe it to all the people who love you." The words didn't seem to have much impact. "I _promise_ you things'll get better very soon. You were turning a corner this morning when you went outside. It felt good, didn't it?" A cautious nod. "This…" Rossi gestured at the sling. "…is minor, Aaron. _Very_ minor. As good as you felt this morning, you'll feel even better in three or four days."

Rossi searched the sad eyes, but didn't see what he wanted. "Just hang on. And when you don't feel strong enough, lean on us. Lean on me." Hotch nodded. Rossi held his gaze until his friend's eyes drifted shut. When Hotch's breathing deepened, he gave a final pat to his chest and went out to explain things to J.J.

"He's resting for a little while." Rossi smiled. "Nice job with Jack. You're a good mom, J.J. You should have a whole bunch more kids."

J.J. chuckled. "Thanks, but I think I've got my hands full for now, especially with _that_ kid." She tilted her head toward Hotch's bedroom. "What went wrong this time?"

"He went out. Got hit by a bike. Dislocated his shoulder." Rossi frowned. "Morgan yelled at him…made him look up just long enough to get hurt. He's carrying a lot of guilt about it. And speaking of Morgan, he left the hospital the same time we did. He should've been here long ago."

Right on cue, they heard shuffling and the jingle of keys at the door. _Hotch's keys_, Rossi reminded himself. The door opened. Morgan stood in the hall with go-bag in hand and a roll of blankets under one arm. He was struggling to manipulate Hotch's key ring with the other hand that was also gripping the corner of a large pillow. Morgan pushed his way inside and dropped his burdens on the floor.

"What…?" J.J. watched him toe his luggage further into the room.

"I'm moving in." Morgan's tone allowed no objections. "Until Hotch is on his feet and can throw me out himself, I'm moving in." He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out something that glittered and flashed.

"And here's your stupid bear, Rossi."


	35. A Show of Solidarity

Comradely clamor in the hallway announced the arrival of Reid, Garcia and Prentiss. The three were just in time to see Rossi pick a sparkling, pink teddy bear charm off Morgan's palm. With great dignity, making sure everyone had ample opportunity to see that he was _not_ trying to hide the thing, he pocketed it. The new arrivals were in good humor until they noticed the luggage and bedding at Morgan's feet and saw his obstinate, defiant expression. J.J. shook her head at them, confirming that something unexpected was transpiring. She addressed Rossi and Morgan in her best facilitator's voice.

"Why don't you guys give us the Cliff Notes version while we get dinner ready?"

Morgan picked up his go-bag and stowed it in a far corner of the living room. Prentiss watched with interest.

"So you're moving in now?"

He glared at her. "Yeah? So?"

She held her hands up in surrender. "Just asking. Rossi, you wanna explain whatever we missed today?" She looked around the room. "And where's Hotch?" A note of concern crept into her voice.

Rossi followed J.J. into the kitchen while he talked. "Hotch had a bad day. He's resting. He'll be out to eat, but he needed a little down time, that's all."

Prentiss was on alert. "Down time as in 'time-out because he's been bad' or down time as in 'downward spiral?'"

"Little of both."

Morgan broke. "He went out on his own this morning. I yelled at him and, because of _that_, he got hit by a bike. We spent the whole day in the emergency room."

Reid closed his eyes in disbelieving sympathy. Garcia went to Morgan's side and laid a consoling hand on his arm. Prentiss launched herself toward Hotch's room before anyone could stop her.

"Emily!" But Rossi was too late. They watched her slip into the bedroom and close the door.

"Let's just make dinner." J.J. wasn't sure that being alone was the best thing for Hotch. And she trusted Prentiss to decide if it was.

Hotch's room always seemed gloomy and dim to Prentiss, but even in murky light, the contrast of the black sling against his pale skin brought a lump into her throat. _What did you do in a previous life to piss off the gods!?_ If the consequences hadn't been so tragic, she might even have found some humor in them. As it was, she approached the prone figure and lowered her weight onto the mattress edge with extra care. She wasn't sure if he was really asleep, so she leaned in, almost nose to nose.

Hotch was drifting on the powerful shot of anti-inflammatories he'd been given in the ER. When he finally surfaced, he kept his eyes closed and investigated how this latest injury felt. It was painful, but not bad enough for the mini-breakdown he'd had in front of Rossi. He sighed and decided to cut himself some slack for once and chalk it up to being worn out with feeling under par for months on end. This latest incident was the straw that broke his back.

He opened his eyes and froze. Two dark, fathomless pools were staring at him from a mere two inches away. They filled his field of vision. They were so close he didn't recognize them until he heard their owner's voice.

"How bad do you feel?" Prentiss was almost whispering.

"I'll be oka…fine."

"Sure?"

"Uh-huh." It was unsettling how she didn't blink. And how he couldn't see any pupils, just…darkness.

"Morgan feels terrible."

"I'm sorry." Was it possible she was moving even closer?

"Not your fault."

"Prentiss?"

"What?"

"You're scaring me." Her gaze didn't waver the least bit.

"You know what comes next, don't you?"

He swallowed and tried to shake his head, but even that couldn't break eye contact.

"You got hurt again. Everyone's worried. You're going to have to be still and submit to the nuzzle. Got it?"

"Sure." She _was_ moving closer. Then he felt soft lips on his forehead and she sat up. Now that he could see her whole face, not just the eyes, he saw nothing but grave concern.

Prentiss looked at his sling and shook her head. "Morgan blames himself. Probably something he learned from you." She stood up. "I'm sending him in. Best to get his nuzzle over with first." She smoothed away any last vestiges of apprehension by touching Hotch's cheek and smiling. "You do have great cheekbones, boss. Try not to break them, okay?"

He watched her leave and felt a little better. Weird. Sometimes Prentiss' unorthodox tactics were like the little bear's bed in the story of Goldilocks he read to Jack…j-u-u-ust right.

When Prentiss rejoined the others, it was almost time to eat. Places had been set, wine poured. A glass of water and some pills indicated where Hotch would sit. Everyone looked at her for some sign of how things had transpired behind the closed door.

Prentiss smiled and picked up a glass of wine. "I think he'll recover." She took a sip. "Morgan, you should go help him up. Looks like it might be painful to get off the bed."

Reluctance oozing from every pore, Morgan went to confront what he'd done to his boss' shoulder.

"You really think he's okay?" Garcia was tremulous with worry. Prentiss nodded.

"What'd you do in there?" As a mother, J.J. could read mischief better than any of them. Emily reeked of it.

"Nothing much. Scared him a little. Kissed him a little." Prentiss particularly enjoyed the look on Reid's face as she sauntered away, sipping her wine with a smirk.

Morgan watched Hotch making abortive, little attempts to get up without jarring his injured shoulder. He reached his side and slipped an arm behind him, raising him to a sitting position and helping him to the edge of the bed.

The two sat side by side. Hotch was ramrod straight to ease the strain on his entire left side from neck to waist. Morgan slumped over with his elbows resting on his knees.

It came out simultaneously: "I'm sorry."

Morgan overrode Hotch. "I'm sorry I made you look up. You'd be fine right now if I hadn't yelled at you."

Hotch gave him a sidelong look; it hurt to turn his neck to the left. "I'm sorry I went out when I knew you guys didn't want me to."

"I'm sorry I didn't realize how much you wanted to _get_ out. I could've gone with you and kept you safe."

"I'm sorry you guys are wasting your time off on me."

"I'm sorry you get hurt so much."

"Me, too."

Morgan smiled and nudged Hotch's knee. "Food's ready. Looks Italian. Or maybe that's just 'cause Rossi's plating it." Hotch grinned.

"Help me put on a shirt."

Morgan shook his head. "No, man. Doctor said no shirts for today. Let the shoulder rest."

"I don't want to sit out there with everyone without a shirt on."

Morgan watched Hotch's profile for a moment. He stood and in one swift motion pulled his own shirt off.

"It won't be just you. C'mon. Let's go eat."

When the door opened and all eyes turned toward it, two shirtless agents walked out.

Morgan's glare was indiscriminate. It included everyone except Hotch.

"Yeah? So?" He put a hand on the small of Hotch's back and saw him to his place.


	36. Love After Death

During dinner Hotch learned two things. First, Prentiss' theory about everyone needing to nuzzle him was true. Maybe it was because he didn't have a shirt on and, being self-conscious, was hyper-aware, but he thought that there were a lot more instances of people patting, caressing and otherwise touching him than usual. A favorite for Garcia was kissing the top of his head whenever she put food on his plate. Rossi preferred a quick squeeze to the nape of his neck. Morgan gave back-handed pats to his stomach. The others focused on his back and his one good shoulder.

The second thing he had to accept was Rossi's claim that Hotch liked affectionate physical contact. A lot. He wondered if he was trying to make up for a loveless childhood or had a bottomless need for validation when the murmur of conversation around him halted and he realized people were waiting for a response. He looked up. All eyes were on him, except Garcia's. Penelope hadn't been able to tear hers away from the sight of shirtless Morgan for some time. Hotch's own darted around the group, hoping for a clue that would trigger whatever reaction they expected. He wasn't fast enough.

Morgan stood up, tossing his napkin onto the counter. "That's it. You're fading, Hotch. Bedtime."

"No. I'm fine. I was just thinking."

Morgan and Rossi exchanged looks. Rossi shrugged. Morgan considered his boss for a moment. "Okay. But I'm putting you in that chair…" he nodded toward the plaid monstrosity, "…and I'm icing you down."

Hotch mumbled something, but accepted the alternative to being sent to bed. He wasn't ready to leave the group. The nuzzling was helping.

Morgan installed him in the chair. With Reid's help, he cushioned and adjusted to accommodate Hotch's latest injury. Reid took two ice packs Rossi had prepared and sandwiched the shoulder joint between them.

The usual after-dinner clean-up took place. Morgan kept glancing over at Hotch. It was difficult to tell when he closed his eyes if he was falling asleep or, as he claimed, 'just thinking.' Reid saw Derek's concern.

"If you want to tip him over the edge and get him to fall asleep, I can tell you how." Everyone within hearing distance looked interested. "Massage his chest." Morgan raised an eyebrow.

Rossi moved closer. "His chest? I've been doing that."

"And it works, right?" Rossi nodded. Reid crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, training his clinical eye on a Hotch who had no idea he was the focal point of discussion. "He carries all his tension in his upper body. Lots of people do. If you work from the center outward, in effect it's like moving all that stress to the edges of a plateau and then pushing it off. Start at the sternum, but don't press too hard. That could make him nauseous." He looked thoughtful. "Works best on men. With women, breast tissue gets in the way. You don't wanna go there. That can cause all kinds of trouble."

The three women muffled themselves out of respect for Dr. Reid's naiveté.

"Clueless," Prentiss muttered. "Absolutely clueless."

"That's great, kid, but I'm not gonna walk up and just…_grab_ him." Morgan didn't feel he could claim the paternal privileges and familiarity that Rossi did.

Rossi smiled. "Here's a thought: why don't we talk to him for a while until he feels sleepy on his own?" One of the things Rossi appreciated about growing older was the ability to know when a problem really didn't exist. "When he nods off, you can bed him down, Morgan…Doesn't look as though it'll take too long anyway."

Reid nodded. "I wouldn't think so. He's got more than the usual amount of meds in his system and he's drained from a stressful day. I give him…maybe…an hour."

The team watched their leader lean his head back and stare at the ceiling.

J.J.'s voice was soft. "I wonder what he _is_ thinking."

"Ask him." Rossi shook his head and poured himself a shot of scotch. There were a lot of benefits to growing older. One realized that so many impediments and obstacles were self-imposed. And then they just…fell away.

Hotch was aware when the others drifted over, taking seats around him where they were available. Sitting on the floor where they weren't. He felt warm and peaceful. He liked the company. There was something effortless about it tonight. He didn't feel he had to keep up appearances. He was even getting used to being half-naked. A tiny corner of his mind whispered that he could thank fatigue and drugs for his equanimity, but he dismissed the notion. He didn't care about the where or the why of it. It felt good.

"How ya doin', Hotch?" Morgan perched on the coffee table edge.

"Good." He grinned. "Thanks for…that." His nod indicated his compatriot's shirtless state.

"Really…" Garcia interjected. "_Thank_ _you_ for that."

Prentiss tilted her head and looked her boss up and down. "You've had a rough day."

"Yeah. Not one I want to repeat." He sighed. "But _this_ is nice."

J.J. picked up the thread. "Are you really okay? You seem a little distant."

Hotch closed his eyes. "Just thinking."

"About what?

"'Bout what happens when you die."

_Haley_. It shuddered through them like a kiss blown from icy lips. _He's thinking about Haley_.

Rossi stood straighter; his drink forgotten. "What about it, Hotch?"

"I read some stuff. Some near-death-experience stuff." He sighed and a faint smile touched his lips. "They say when you die, there's a moment when you feel loved." He didn't see the looks exchanged by a group made suddenly wary. "You feel totally surrounded,…completely…by a love that doesn't care what you do or how many mistakes you've made…or how worthless you are." His voice came from somewhere dark and low and on the brink of sleep. "I bet that's nice…I'd like that." A very deep sigh. "Something to look forward to."

Morgan lost his reticence. He stepped behind Hotch's chair, looped an arm around his neck in a one-armed hug and spanned the other hand across his chest. "You're already there, Hotch."

Hotch didn't hear. He'd fallen asleep. His slight smile made them think he was dreaming of someplace he'd like to be; someplace where love was given…even to the worthless.

It took all three men to put Hotch to bed without jostling his injured shoulder. Reid decided to skip the ultra sound treatment. The team reassembled in the living room and traded anxious looks. Morgan vocalized the main concern.

"We can't leave him alone. Not when he's thinking like…_that_!"

"My God, would he really do that? Do you think?" Garcia's eyes were tear-blurred behind pink-and-white striped frames.

Prentiss shook her head. "No. No, I don't think so. He's got Jack. He wouldn't do that to Jack."

"Are you sure about that?" Reid's arms were crossed and he was hunching into himself as though trying to fend off something terrible. "Fathers leave sons all the time."

J.J.'s eyes were tearful, too. "_Not_ Hotch. He loves Jack more than anything in this world."

"And if he thinks he's worthless, then he might think he's not good enough to be Jack's father." Prentiss applied logic, hoping it would suppress her own turbulent emotions. "He might think he's doing Jack a favor by vacating the position."

Rossi and Morgan locked eyes. They were the only ones Hotch had confided in. What Prentiss said made exquisite sense, especially if Hotch was afraid of turning into the kind of man his own father had been. Rossi took a deep breath. Putting his hand in his pocket, he fingered the flash drive holding Hotch's medical records.

"Before we jump to any more conclusions, let's pull back a little."

Morgan shook his head. "We don't have a lot of time, Rossi. We go back to work in about a week. With this shoulder thing, Hotch is out for another three to twelve. How are we supposed to take care of him if we're not around?"

"First, don't condemn him to something that might just be the ramblings of a tired guy on drugs." Rossi tried to look fierce despite a churning stomach and the desire to go to Hotch's room and scoop him, injured shoulder and all, into a hug; a hug that would keep his boy safe from everything until he could stand on his own again. He took a deep breath. "For now, Morgan's staying with him. Tomorrow I'm going in to see if I can touch bases with the Director about some other things. I'll tell him Hotch got hurt again and maybe we can work something out like…I don't know…a kind of time-share on looking after him. For now, everything's okay. Let's just go home and we'll meet back here for dinner tomorrow."

Rossi turned to Morgan. "I don't think he even saw your go-bag. He probably doesn't know you're staying here."

"I don't care what he says. I'm not leaving."

"Good. You call us if you need help with him, got it?" Morgan nodded.

Rossi gathered up his coat and keys along with the others. They were filing out when he turned and looked toward Hotch's bedroom. He lowered his voice for Morgan's ears only.

"Derek, don't leave him too long behind closed doors. Keep an eye on him. Just in case."

Morgan locked the door after the team left, turned on the alarm and checked on Jack. After setting up his own bedroll in a corner and depositing his toiletries in the bathroom, he opened Hotch's door. Standing by the bed, he looked down on his sleeping boss.

Hotch was restless. Morgan attributed it to the painful shoulder that wouldn't allow normal shifts in position. But when Morgan thought he heard him mumble 'no' a few times, he sat on the bed beside him. Placing his hand in the center of Hotch's chest, he tried not to press too hard. Reid had said to push the stress away. Morgan did his best.

After a while, Hotch seemed calmer and Morgan decided it was safe to leave him. He rubbed his friend's good shoulder gently.

"Hotch, if you do anything to hurt yourself…I'll kill you." He tried to think of something even worse.

"And then I'll let Prentiss have you."


	37. Roomies

Early the next morning, Rossi was on the road, headed to the Bureau. He had no appointment, but was counting on his status both as a veteran agent and a prolific author to garner him a few minutes of the Director's time. He smiled. As much as he enjoyed his team members, sometimes it was good to talk to someone older; someone whose experiences more nearly matched his own. When you reached the Director's level, you could either consider yourself jaded and worn, or cagier, more perceptive and downright dangerous than the majority of your colleagues. Rossi had chosen the latter. The Director was good company…if you kept sharp around him, if you realized that sometimes silences and subtexts were louder than any spoken words. Some found that unsettling. Rossi counted on it.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. J.J. should be picking Jack up. And Hotch should be discovering that he had a new roomie. Rossi decided he'd let the two alpha males work it out on their own. He had no doubt Morgan would win this round. Hotch was smart. He could talk his way around soft hearts like J.J's, but if he tried such tactics on Morgan, he'd only worsen his position. Rossi chuckled. If Hotch pushed the wrong buttons, by the end of the day he'd be lucky if Morgan allowed him to pee without an escort.

He pulled into the Bureau's subterranean garage, turned off the ignition and mentally reviewed how he hoped his meeting with the Director would go.

On the elevator up to the administrative level, he fished the pink, rhinestone bear out of his pocket. He peered at its tiny, sparkling face.

The thing seemed to be leering at him.

Hotch woke up and stared at the ceiling. His body felt stiff and sore and one shoulder was curiously…padded. It took a moment to remember why. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his ribs were still too painful. His abs couldn't contract enough to defy gravity yet. Yesterday's bike collision hadn't done them any favors. Before he could make a second attempt, Morgan was beside him. A powerful hand slipped around his waist. Another reached behind his good shoulder. He was lifted and set on the edge of the bed. Although grateful, Hotch hated the insubstantial feeling such aid gave him. He wished he didn't need it. Morgan was watching him.

"Thanks."

"Any time."

Hotch heard Jack and J.J. preparing to leave. He was determined to see his son off to school every morning, even if he couldn't accompany him. Standing, he realized having one arm in a sling made a difference in his balance. He wavered, but, once again, Morgan's hands came to the rescue.

"I'm okay. Really." Hotch headed out to the living room in time to see J.J. slipping Jack's arms into his jacket.

"Daddy!" Jack ran to him and stretched upward. Hotch did a one-armed pickup. He felt Morgan's hands hovering around his waist, their light pressure ensuring his balance.

"Hey, Buddy! Off to school again, huh? Still loving it?"

"Yeah. It's fun. We're gonna plant narse…narse.." He looked to J.J. for help.

"They're planting narcissus bulbs. They should bloom around Christmas." She smiled an apology. "Now you know your Christmas present."

Hotch grinned. "That's terrific, Jack! A plant is just what this place needs, right?"

"Right!"

He let his son slide to the floor and watched him run to J.J., eager to be off. She ushered him out the door, giving Hotch a small farewell wave. She sent Morgan a look that Hotch couldn't interpret. There was something in it that made him think this morning routine contained more than met the eye. The door closed. Hotch listened to the sounds of happy chatter fading as the two went down the hall and out the building door. He imagined the day he could be the one accompanying Jack and whispered a wistful "Bye, Buddy." Morgan's touch brought him back with a start. He turned around.

"What are you still doing here?" Morgan didn't answer. He was searching his boss' eyes for something. Hotch felt awkward and looked away. That's when he noticed the blankets, pillow and go-bag in the corner. He frowned. Giving Morgan a sidelong glance, he walked over and took a closer look at this new installation in his home. After a moment, he turned back. "I don't understand. What's going on?"

Morgan took a preparatory breath. "I'm staying here until you're back to normal."

"Morgan, I'm fine. Really. I don't need a babysitter."

"You don't get to make that decision anymore."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm staying with you twenty-four-seven." Morgan took a step closer, underlining Hotch's current inability to oppose him by any physical means. "The day you can push me out that door, Hotch…that's the day I'll leave."

Shaking his head, Hotch sidestepped his adversary. "I'm not fighting you. Go home."

"I _am_ home." Morgan caught Hotch as he passed. With gentle, irresistible strength he pressed his boss up against the wall, holding him in place with one hand spread across his chest.

"Morgan, you're crossing the line." Hotch fixed him with his fiercest glare, but the sadness in Morgan's face made him falter. He felt the hand on his chest move to the side, leaving the thumb centered. Slowly, the thumb moved back and forth. Hotch couldn't explain why this always seemed to be the magic switch that calmed him, deepened his breathing and could almost make his eyes close. He didn't like that Morgan knew how to do this to him. _Rossi must have taught him._ He tried to rally, but the build-up to anger wasn't there anymore. Morgan was draining it off. Hotch gave a shaky sigh. "Please stop." The thumb stopped. Hotch realized he'd slumped down a little. He pulled himself up, standing as tall as he could. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're loved and you have no right to throw that away." Morgan couldn't tell if Hotch understood; he'd gone all stoic. "Hotch, do you remember what we were talking about last night?"

"We talked about a lot of things."

"After dinner. Right before you fell asleep?" Hotch looked blank. "You said that dying sounded good; like something to look forward to."

Hotch shook his head. "I couldn't have. I wouldn't say anything like that."

"You did." No response. "You said that at the moment of death, some people feel completely loved and you wanted to feel like that."

Hotch couldn't remember exactly, but he couldn't deny that it _did_ sound good. More than anything else, that scared him. Morgan continued. "So Rossi and I were thinking, if you're afraid of turning into an abusive dad, you might look at dying as a way out, a way to save Jack from what you went through with the bonus of finally feeling like you're loved, too."

Hotch swallowed. Even if he didn't believe he'd told everyone that, when Morgan said it, it _did_ make perfect sense.

Morgan felt Hotch's breathing quicken. His eyes were wider, almost frightened. _It looks like one of the panic attacks that guys with PTSD get_. He pressed his boss back and resumed running his thumb over the center of his chest. When the haunted look left Hotch's eyes and his breath slowed, Morgan gave silent thanks to Reid for his lecture about massage.

Who'd have thought formidable Aaron Hotchner could be taken down by a thumb?

Rossi hesitated outside the Director's office, waiting for him to look up and see his surprise visitor through the glass panes bordering the doorway. It only took a moment. The Director was very aware of his surroundings; a talent honed by years of field work when such awareness could make a life-or-death difference.

"David Rossi!" He motioned him in. "Good to see you. Write anything _new_ lately?"

It was a running joke between them that Rossi had promised to omit any sensitive information from his books. The Director was always needling him about having to stick to older cases.

"No, but I'm always updating…" They shook hands. The Director waved Rossi to a seat.

"I thought I gave your team some time off. What're you doing spending it here?"

"Just wanted to thank you for that. It's been time well-used."

"How's Hotchner doing? Healing on schedule?"

Rossi shifted in his chair. "He's a fast healer, but we did hit a bump in the road." The Director raised his eyebrows, inviting more information. "He had a little run-in with a bicycle yesterday. Dislocated a shoulder."

The Director read between the lines, as Rossi had hoped he would. "And you need a little more time to look after your boy?" The barest of nods. "Alright. Man like Agent Hotchner is a company asset. You write up what you need and I'll okay it. Fair enough?"

Rossi smiled. "Thank you." He put some carefully crafted emphasis on his next words. "As you say, he's a fast healer…medical reports don't lie."

The two veterans of subterfuge and secrets regarded each other in silence.

The Director picked up the thread. "Reports don't lie. People do." It was Rossi's turn to raise his brows. "Dave, is there something you want to tell me?"

Rossi had considered the possibilities. If he pulled Erin Strauss' plot against Hotch out into the open, she would suffer. But she was also a valuable asset to the Bureau. There was a good chance she'd be disciplined _short_ of being terminated. She would be more careful, but she _would_ try to sideline Hotch again. However, if he planted a suspicion with her superior, held the proof in reserve, and let Strauss know about it, it would be like holding a sword over her neck, poised to fall. He would have a considerable amount of control, especially when it came to averting future attempts to harm Aaron. He lifted his chin and looked at the Director through lidded eyes.

"No. Let's just say I'd like you to remember this conversation and keep my options open…Can we leave things that way for now?"

"If you like. My door is always open. And my memory is excellent."

The two seasoned agents smiled at each other across decades of experience with office politics.

It would have looked quite chilling to an outsider.


	38. Adversaries and Anomalies

The Director hid his rapid calculations behind a blank façade. Before Rossi reached the door on his way out, he had a very good idea of what had happened and who was responsible. The only puzzle piece he couldn't reconcile was how the reports he'd received concerning Agent Hotchner had been polished and pointed to the positive side when they'd come from Strauss' computer.

He smiled and decided to let Dave have his way. Until called in, he'd let the lower echelons battle it out in private. He'd known there was friction between Strauss and the younger Hotchner. If so much effort had been put into attacking him and then so much more into defending him, Hotchner was someone he'd like to keep his eye on personally. He also wondered who besides Rossi had gone to bat for him. He'd like to watch over that one's career as well. Hotchner and that unknown agent were just the type he'd like to see take over when it was time for the older generation to retire.

The Director turned back to reading his daily round of reports. He was comfortable leaving the entire situation in David Rossi's experienced hands. He almost felt sorry for Strauss. But not quite.

As Rossi left the Director's office, he couldn't keep the grin from stretching his lips to an almost painful point. As bad as Hotch's luck was these days, the gods were smiling on David Rossi. The timing couldn't have been more perfect.

Staring at him from the end of the corridor, bathed in chilly fluorescent light, was Erin Strauss.

Her steps faltered for the briefest moment. But Erin was no rookie. She covered her feelings like a master. She was sure Agent Prentiss had been involved in the destruction of her beautiful plan for Hotchner to take a dive to a desk job, but she couldn't be sure if Prentiss had acted alone. Seeing Rossi exiting the Director's office when his whole team was supposed to be on leave made Strauss' stomach plummet. She judged others by her own motives. If he was the mastermind behind her downfall, Rossi might have just signed her professional death warrant. _Never let them see you sweat_. Strauss held her head high and kept her pace steady, sensible shoes clumping toward possible doom.

"Agent Rossi." She made her nod of greeting abrupt, dismissive, bordering on contemptuous.

"Hello, Erin." The mirth in his voice was like nails, and she was the chalkboard they scratched. He saw her shudder of revulsion and reveled in it. What she had done was reprehensible. He wanted to savor the next few minutes.

"Going to see the Director, Erin?"

"Yes, well, you know…" She shrugged and tried to look secure and superior in her relationship with the highest power of the Bureau.

"I _do_ know…Erin." In an instant, there was no levity in Rossi's voice or expression. "I know _exactly_ what you've been doing behind Aaron Hotchner's back."

"What are you trying to s…"

"I'm not _trying_ to say anything. I am stating facts with extreme clarity. I wouldn't want you to miss a word." Rossi moved close enough for Strauss to consider backing away. To her credit and training, she held her ground. Rossi's voice was venomous silk. "I just planted a few seeds in the Director's mind about the veracity of medical records as opposed to the veracity of human beings."

Strauss swallowed, but kept her head high and her mouth shut; ice-chip eyes steady.

"He's already wondering what might be going on that could require his special attention…and some disciplinary action. If I have even the slightest suspicion that you're intriguing against Aaron Hotchner or any other member of my team again, I'll bring those seeds I planted to full, complete fruition…with _this_!" Rossi whipped out the flash drive containing enough date-and-time stamped evidence to damn Strauss and destroy her career.

Strauss blinked. "You're threatening me with… _jewelry_?"

Rossi closed his eyes in hearty hatred of rhinestone teddy bears. _Damn Garcia's penchant for pink sparkly things_. "It's a flash drive, Erin. It holds computerized data. In this case, it holds all of Hotchner's medical records. The original ones. With the original times and dates of creation. The ones that can prove what you sent the Director were falsified documents."

Strauss' coloring had acquired a waxy, ashen sheen, but she tried to extricate herself one more time. "The medical records the Director has concerning Agent Hotchner are quite…complimentary. So if you're insinuating that I sent him information that would put Hotchner in a negative light…"

"Oh, don't insult us both by pretending you don't know that _any_ tampering, for better _or_ worse, would be treated as equally incriminating. And we both know who would be found guilty of this particular crime, don't we?"

Rossi pocketed the little bear and continued his way down the corridor. "I'm going down to IT to have some copies made. You know, just for safe keeping. Might give one to each member of the team. Might make a nice early Christmas present. Have a nice day, Erin."

Strauss looked at the door to the Director's office. Suddenly, she wasn't looking forward to this meeting anymore.

Hotch was confused in a most disturbing way. Morgan's confrontation and suggestion that the whole team thought he was suicidal bothered him more than he could explain. He really hadn't been thinking about it, but as Morgan described the logic behind it, he was alarmed at how elegant a solution killing himself could be. But this…death watch…Morgan was keeping on him made him doubt himself as he never had before. He spent the day watching Morgan watching him. When Jack and J.J. returned from school, it was with extreme relief that Hotch curled up with his son and talked over the new worlds that were opening up to him via kindergarten.

But he could feel Morgan, and now J.J., watching.

"How's he been?" J.J. had some qualms about how they were handling Hotch. She was fashioning her own plan, but hadn't decided if she would present it, or simply implement it.

Morgan shrugged. "He's really quiet. Distracted. Not happy I'm here."

"He looks fine when he's with Jack." J.J. shook her head. "I don't think he'd leave his son. Not after everything he's gone through to get him back."

"J.J., I don't have to tell you the human mind is too complex to understand at a glance. Especially Hotch's. Especially when we're so close to the situation in a personal, emotional way."

"I know, but…" She continued her doubts internally.

By the time the rest of the team had straggled in, Jack had been fed, bathed and put to bed. Hotch's shoulder had been iced yet again. He had a mournful expression, but wasn't saying much. J.J. couldn't stop herself from standing behind the chair where Morgan had kept him for the better part of the day. She leaned her chin on top of his head and rubbed the back of his neck. When she whispered to him that everything would be okay, he glanced up at her, but still looked sad.

Dinner preparations were underway. Morgan, Reid and Rossi observed Hotch's lack of response to J.J.

"Has he been this quiet all day?" Rossi's ebullient mood, fed by his successful day at the BAU, was dampened.

Morgan nodded. "Yeah. He had a lot more spirit this morning. I thought it'd be harder to keep him under control, but…hey, kid…that chest massage thing really works!"

Reid frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I did like you said. I got him up against the wall and it didn't even take two hands to rub his chest in that center spot. He just about goes out like a light." Morgan slapped Reid's shoulder. "It works!" The horrified look Reid gave him erased his grin.

"Morgan, it's supposed to relax him, not _disable_ him!" The young doctor looked thoughtful and then ran both hands over his face. "Oh, Jeeezz."

"What?" Rossi was getting alarmed.

"It shouldn't render him helpless…unless…unless he's been…oh, crap." Reid left his audience unsatisfied and went to Hotch's side.

Kneeling beside the chair, he spoke in soft, medically professional tones while the others gathered behind him. "Hotch, I'm not gonna do anything to you, but would you let me take a look at your chest?" Hotch raised an eyebrow and looked at the mini-crowd watching him. Reid understood. "Guys, back off and give us some privacy…please?"

Garcia returned to the kitchen, looking worried. Prentiss followed after grumbling that there wasn't anything about Hotch's body she hadn't already seen. Morgan and Rossi backed away, but slipped around to stand behind J.J. where Hotch wouldn't feel so imposed upon.

Morgan had helped Hotch dress that morning. He'd put him into an oversized t-shirt, the roominess of which made it easier to maneuver around Hotch's injured shoulder. Reid pulled the baggy neckline down and peered at his sternum. It was prominent, easily visible along with the ribs that Morgan had challenged Hotch to pad by eating more. Reid looked up. Hotch's eyes were fixed on him. Not defensive, but…wary.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Hotch, but I need to touch you. I'll be careful, okay?"

Hotch nodded, his eyes flickering away as Reid placed three fingers over the area. As he moved them around the breastbone, Reid watched Hotch's reaction. At first, nothing. But as he increased pressure by small increments, everyone, even the ladies in the kitchen, could see Hotch's eyelids lower and his muscles relax. Everyone heard his deep sigh. Reid stopped. He let his hand lie still across his boss' chest while Hotch blinked, drawing himself up and returning to normal. When Hotch looked at him again, Reid removed his hand and pulled the collar of the t-shirt back up.

"Hotch? Were you hurt when you were a kid? Maybe an accident where your chest was injured?"

Rossi and Morgan snapped to attention. Hotch had his best inscrutable look on.

"I don't know. Maybe. Kind of."

"I'm only asking because it looks like the manubrium…uh,…the breastbone…has developed some extra nerves: a nerve _cluster_. That can happen when you're in a developmental stage and it gets traumatized." Hotch maintained his expressionless regard. Reid felt some reassurance was in order. "It's not dangerous. It's just an anomaly. A really rare one."

Rossi felt a lump form in his throat. _He's never going to completely escape, is he? That rat-bastard monster of a father still has his hands on him_.

He pulled Morgan away. "No more touching his chest, okay?"

"Okay."

It sounded as though a lump had formed in Morgan's throat, too.


	39. Death and the Agent

Dinner was somber. Again, Hotch didn't eat much. After an acceptable interval, he excused himself, saying he was tired. Morgan rose to follow him.

"I'll help you." Hotch turned his head to look at him, but didn't object. Morgan followed him down the hall to the bathroom.

"He's worse." Garcia had been bursting to say something all during the meal.

Reid deposited his plate in the sink. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed toward the bedroom. He wasn't going to let Hotch skip two consecutive nights of ultra sound, no matter how much it seemed he wanted to be alone.

"I think we're handling this all wrong." J.J. was glad Morgan wasn't within hearing. She was sure his would be the most vociferous argument against what she was about to propose. Everyone looked her way.

"I think he needs to get out of this…this _hole_." She scanned the apartment with its limited windows and stacks of boxes instead of furniture. "I'd be depressed, too, if I had to stay here twenty four hours a day. Add having Morgan in here, and knowing that everyone thinks you're suicidal…" J.J. shook her head and threw her napkin on the counter. "My God, he got hurt yesterday because he needed fresh air and sunlight. What are we doing? Imprisoning him? Punishing him?"

"He said he was looking forward to dying." Prentiss had been hearing the echo of Hotch's words all day. "We have to take that seriously."

Leaning his elbows on the counter top before him, Rossi folded his hands under his chin and turned his attention to J.J. "You have something in mind you think would help?"

"Maybe. Just let me look after him tomorrow after I drop Jack off. Tell Morgan I'll spell him, okay?"

"Care to give us any details?"

"I want some time with him first."

The four exchanged glances and reached a silent consensus. Rossi took a deep breath and pushed his chair back.

"Okay. I'll talk to Morgan. He won't like it, but it's probably a good idea not to keep two alpha males caged up together for too long."

When Hotch came back down the hallway and turned into his bedroom, Rossi motioned Morgan over. "Reid's in there. He'll be okay for a while." Rossi had predicted correctly. It took some arguing to make Morgan relinquish his self-appointed post as Hotch's protector. In the end, he agreed to give J.J. the five hours during which Jack attended kindergarten as private time with their boss.

"But I'm staying here at night," he grumbled. "Not leaving him alone at night…shouldn't be left alone at all."

For the next half hour, while Reid worked on Hotch's ribs, Rossi regaled the rest of the team with tales of his day at the office. There were smiles and genuine delight at the prospect of writing their own Hotch-friendly schedules for the next few weeks. There were sly grins and heartfelt relief at the thought of being protected from Strauss' machinations. But no one had any illusions that it would last forever. They were sure Strauss was even then wracking her brain for a way out of Rossi's trap. Someday she'd find one. But in the meantime, she was one less workplace worry.

When Reid joined the group, Rossi wished them goodnight and went into Hotch's room. The others caught the doctor up on what he'd missed, did some clean-up and left.

Morgan checked on Jack, fixed himself a drink, and debated whether or not he should look in on what Rossi was doing. He decided against interrupting. He had the feeling Hotch had reached his Morgan-saturation point for the day. Tomorrow, before J.J. took over, he'd apologize for using the aftermath of a childhood injury to keep his friend under control. Morgan shook his head and sipped his whiskey. Despite the best of intentions, he kept hurting Hotch.

Rossi found Hotch lying on his back, a pillow propping up his injured shoulder. The sad eyes looked at him, then shifted back to contemplating the ceiling. Rossi took his place on the side of the bed. After a few minutes of silence, he looked Hotch's body up and down and sighed.

"Running out of places I can touch you, Aaron."

Hotch turned his head toward him. "You can still touch my chest. I don't mind, if it's you."

"But you _do_ mind if it's Morgan?" Hotch nodded. "Because he used it to control you?"

"Yeah."

"You know he feels bad about that, don't you? He didn't realize what he was doing."

"I know."

Rossi watched him for a little while longer before taking Hotch at his word and laying a hand on his chest. He didn't massage. He kept still, waiting for Hotch's reaction. The Unit Chief closed his eyes for a moment, but when he remained calm and quiet, Rossi began the conversation he felt was necessary.

"Do you remember how you got injured?"

"Yes." It was a whisper. Something between secret and horrified.

"What happened?"

Hotch swallowed and his breathing quickened. _Panic attack; PTSD_, thought Rossi. More gently than he ever had before, he moved his hand across his friend's chest. It was massage alternated with intervals of stationary warmth and pressure. It worked. Hotch relaxed, but Rossi could see the glitter of tears gathering. When he spoke again, Rossi could hear the effort it took to keep his voice from cracking.

"He wanted to see if he could get my heart to stop. So he kicked me in the chest. A lot." Rossi heard his own breath go ragged. Hotch closed his eyes and continued. "I don't remember how old I was for a lot of the stuff he did. It's blurry. I just remember pain and being scared all the time."

Rossi removed his hand from Hotch's chest.

"Sit up."

He put an arm behind him and raised him. Doing his best to avoid the hurt shoulder and the damaged ribs, he wrapped his arms around Aaron and hugged him close. After a moment, Rossi felt Hotch's one good arm tighten, returning the hug.

"_Te amo_, Aaron. I will protect you to the best of my ability for the rest of my life. That's a promise. And if there's any possible way to watch over you when I'm gone…that's a promise, too." Rossi held him until he felt him shift, signaling discomfort despite the care being taken to avoid tender spots. He pulled back and eased Hotch down.

"We need to talk about something else, too." Hotch's shadowed eyes fixed on his. "The other night you talked about dying in a way that was very disturbing to the people who love you."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want an apology. And I don't want you to _stop_ talking about it. I want to understand."

Hotch took a shaky breath. Rossi let his hand rest on his friend's chest once more.

"Dave, I think about what happens when people die a lot. Every time I see…" His voice cracked, then steadied. "…someone's kid or their mother, brother,…whoever…ripped apart and left like trash, discarded like they don't matter, I wanna believe that at the last moment…maybe…maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe they felt loved and…and…" Hotch couldn't hold out any longer. Rossi watched a tear track downward from the corner of his eye. He felt him take a rough breath in an effort to control himself. Rossi felt sick outrage when he realized Hotch's breastbone wasn't rising and falling symmetrically. There was a difference between the right and left side. A small one. One he only felt now when his hand was still and covering the area with gentle pressure. But he didn't want Hotch to stop. He wanted him to get everything out.

"Go on."

"And…and then I hate…I don't know what…maybe the whole way the world works, because if it's true, then murderers, torturers feel it, too." Hotch squeezed his eyes shut. "Then my father…and Foyet…have both been more loved than I ever was."

Rossi gave himself permission to exploit Hotch's injury for his own good. He massaged his chest until calm returned. Hotch licked his lips and turned his head on the pillow to look at him.

"I'm not suicidal. I'm just not happy. There's a difference."

"Of course there is." Rossi watched the precious, battered soul before him. Maybe J.J. was on the right track. They'd find out soon enough. "Morgan's not going home anytime soon." Hotch gave him a sidelong look. "But tomorrow J.J.'s taking his place. She wants you to herself for a few hours." Rossi smiled. Even in the gloomy light, he believed Hotch had perked up a little.

He traced Hotch's breastbone with a gentle touch. "We have some remarkable women on our team."

"Kinda weird ones, too."

"Weird?"

"You don't think Garcia and Prentiss are kinda weird?"

Rossi considered the issue. "I guess. But Garcia's weird in a visual way; with Prentiss, it's more visceral."

Hotch finally gave him a shaky smile. "I like weird."

"Yeah. Me too."

Rossi remained until eyes were closed, breathing was steady and dreams, if not sweet, were at least restful. Hopefully.


	40. Rebels With a Cause

The following morning when J.J. was ready to take Jack to school, Hotch hugged his son goodbye. As he straightened, he whispered "Hurry" to J.J., casting a surreptitious glance Morgan's way. She patted his arm, smiled at Morgan and left the two alpha males on their own. It was a fifteen minute drive to Jack's school. She didn't think another half hour alone would do any serious damage to their relationship. But she drove the limit and ran every yellow light she could. Just in case.

The door closed. The buffering female presence was gone. Separated by a few yards, Morgan and Hotch eyed each other. When Morgan took a step toward him, hand outstretched, Hotch stiffened. The sad disappointment on Morgan's face stopped him from actually taking a step backwards. Morgan halted, arm dropping to his side.

"Hotch, man…I never mean to hurt you, and I keep doing it."

Hotch looked away. "I know."

"Maybe I was too rough and didn't give you a chance, but from now on, if I touch you and it hurts or brings up bad memories, you have to tell me."

"Okay."

"Don't just close down. Kind of like you are now." Hotch gave him a sharp look.

"Sometimes I don't want to talk about stuff, Morgan. It's _my_ past. _I'm_ the one who gets to say how I deal with it."

Morgan felt himself beginning to bristle, reacting to the challenge Hotch was throwing down. He held himself in check, trying to understand what it must feel like to have your home turf overrun, your routine dictated to you, and your body turned into a public demonstration. He swallowed the retort he'd almost made: that he didn't care about Hotch's rights to his past or his privacy; that if he had to tie Hotch up and lock him in a box to keep him safe, he would…without Hotch's permission, thank-you-very-much. Morgan was proud of his restraint when he did respond.

"I wanna help you. Tell me how." Hotch had been expecting a battle. Morgan's mild reply sapped his resolve to stand his ground.

"I know I'm not strong right now. Everyone keeps telling me to lean on them, but I don't know how to do that. I can't give you any pointers."

Morgan nodded. "Fair enough." He crossed his arms so Hotch would know he was in no danger of being manhandled. "How about I make suggestions and you consider them?"

Hotch look wary. "Like what?"

"Like you let me take a look at your shoulder and ice you down while we're waiting for J.J. Sound good?"

"We could do that."

Morgan gestured toward the old armchair "Good. Sit down. I'll get the ice. And after, I'll help you get dressed."

"I can dress myself."

Morgan took a frustration-defusing breath. "Then I'll stand by and you can ask for help, whe…_if_ you need it." He was almost positive Hotch couldn't maneuver his way into clothing without straining his shoulder, but Morgan was trying to make up for having invaded his domain and then having physically overpowered him. As he prepared the ice packs, he watched his boss' awkward efforts to insinuate himself into the overstuffed chair. After a few minutes' observation, Morgan didn't mind any posturing the man did to make himself feel he was regaining control in his own home.

Shirtless, skinny and struggling…it was just such a pathetic sight.

J.J. returned in time to hear an argument concerning the comparable merits of jeans versus sweat pants when one's arm was in a sling. After she'd heard enough to gather the gist of each side, she decided she didn't want to waste any more time. She stood outside Hotch's bedroom door and raised her voice enough to be heard over the male grumbling and fussing.

"For Pete's sake, Morgan! Let him wear jeans. If he needs help with his fly, I can work a zipper!"

Dead silence.

"I'm great with buttons, too!"

After more muffled conversation, Hotch appeared, triumphant and jeaned. Morgan looked disgruntled, but was clearly taking a lower step on the alpha-ladder and letting Hotch win.

J.J. looked him up and down. "You look good." She turned to Morgan. "He's mine now. I'll take good care of him. Don't worry." Morgan hesitated. "That's our deal, Derek. You're supposed to leave now. I'm sure you've got stuff you need to do. You can come back in…" She looked at her watch. "…four and a half hours."

Morgan left, looking suspicious when J.J. wouldn't elaborate on how she and Hotch intended to occupy themselves. J.J. went to the window looking out on the street and watched Morgan get into his car.

"Do you need help putting on shoes, Hotch?" She looked over her shoulder at the man standing uncertainly in the center of the room.

"So we're going out?" He reminded her of a dog she'd had while growing up. Jingle the car keys and it would batter the door in its eagerness to take a trip, tail wagging at a velocity that impeded its ability to walk a straight line.

"Yeah, if Morgan ever leaves." She remained at the window. "Get your shoes. And get the stuff I brought you the other day. You know, the rental magazines?"

Hotch's smile was beaming. "We _are_ going out!"

"Not just 'out.' We're going apartment hunting." She glanced back at him. "Hotch! Shoes! Chop-chop!"

Morgan waited for twenty minutes outside Hotch's apartment building. J.J. was considering making a run for it and wondering how that might jar Hotch's injuries when Morgan's car finally pulled away. J.J. watched him all the way down the street and out of sight.

Three minutes later, she was at the wheel. Hotch was spreading out the literature she'd brought him on the dashboard and over his lap. He was impressed. She had organized the complexes they'd agreed were the best into groups according to location. She already had directions programmed into her GPS for the first set. J.J. turned the key in the ignition and drove toward destination number one. She looked over at Hotch. She hadn't seen him smile so easily in a long time.

A car hovered at the corner behind them. Once they were underway, it followed them from an inconspicuous distance.

Morgan would tail them for the rest of the day. Mostly to be sure Hotch was okay. Partly because he wanted to prove to J.J. that he couldn't be fooled quite so easily.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me." Hotch was leaning his head back, basking in light and vagrant breezes streaming through the open sunroof.

"'S'okay, Hotch." J.J. smiled. "You really need to get away…and not just for a few hours. I'm hoping we can find someplace today and sign a lease. It doesn't matter if you have to break your current one. That place isn't good for you. Or Jack."

"You're right. You know, Morgan still has my wallet and keys. I'll need some ID if we _do_ find something."

J.J.'s grin bordered on malicious. "Why don't you check the glove compartment?"

Hotch pressed the latch and the lid sprang open. Inside, lying on top of a stack of maps and car repair receipts was a familiar, black leather billfold. Next to it was a beloved key ring. His jaw dropped. "J.J.! How did you…?" Hotch was speechless with delight.

"I've been planning this. Yesterday I stole those while Morgan wasn't looking. He's got so much junk in some of his pockets, I don't think he'll realize they're gone for a while." She gave Hotch a sly look. "He's been tailing us since we left."

Hotch couldn't twist around to look behind them without pain, so he searched both the interior and exterior rear view mirrors. Sure enough, there was Morgan, keeping a steady four car separation between them. Just as a well-trained surveillance agent should.

"He must be so mad at us right now." Hotch wasn't looking forward to a confrontation, but he was thoroughly enjoying this rebellion.

"I'm sure he thinks we have no idea he's back there." J.J. gave her traveling companion a sidelong look. "Wha'd'ya say when we stop for lunch we bring him something?"

Hotch laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in months; for the first time since Foyet's initial attack. The only thing that made him eventually stop was the pain in his ribs.

"I love you, J.J.," he gasped out when he could get enough air for speech.

J.J. looked at him fondly. "I love you, too, Hotch."


	41. Finding Home

At first Morgan thought they were visiting people. But after three stops at different complexes, he realized J.J. and Hotch were looking at apartments. He agreed that moving his boss out of the place where he'd suffered so much was essential. He just didn't like the amount of activity when Hotch was still, in his opinion…fragile. Morgan waited at each location, imagination running to scenes of relapse for the recently diagnosed pneumonia patient. He debated approaching the two, but Hotch hadn't coughed for days and there was a bounce in his step that Morgan was glad to see. He finally decided that he'd use this adventure as a bargaining chip to try and persuade Hotch to let him do a whole-body, range-of-motion inspection that evening. He wanted reassurance. The chest episode had Morgan wondering if there was anything else the guy was concealing, either from childhood or, like the muscle spasms, from Foyet's attacks. He'd just feel better if he could 'see' with his own hands if Hotch's body needed anything that wasn't being provided, particularly when it came to movement and pain issues.

At destination number four, J.J. knew Hotch was home. A slow smile grew as each feature of the place was revealed. When it reached his eyes and he got what Rossi called 'the fox look,' she patted his back and asked if they should sign a lease and get some lunch. He nodded with the most purely happy expression she'd seen in…years, maybe.

The Rolling Hills Townhomes were two story, four bedroom houses in groups of two; each unit sharing one wall between them. A gated community, it provided a swimming pool, jungle gym and playground, exercise and weight room, sauna and on-site day care. But what melted Hotch was when he looked out the back door. He'd have a small fenced yard, but beyond that were the hills from which the complex drew its name. The back fence of the property was hidden by a thick line of forest. To the eye it looked like acres and acres of open land. There was room to run, to fly kites, to feel…free. Something deep in Hotch's soul thawed and unfurled a little. He took J.J. off guard when he swept her into a hug.

"Thank you. So much."

She hugged him back, after a surprised hesitation. Aaron accepted physical contact. He responded to it. But he almost never initiated it. It wasn't until that moment that J.J. understood just how caged her friend's spirit had been. And in many ways, still was.

The manager of Rolling Hills smiled as the couple left, a copy of their new lease clutched in the man's hand. They were an attractive couple, but such visual opposites that they had merited a second look when they entered his office. The woman was blond and softly angelic. The man was dark and fierce in a sharp, wolfish way. The man's arm was in a sling and when he moved, it wasn't quite…right. The manager thought he must have been in an accident of some sort and was still sore. The credit check had been instantaneous and admirable. It wasn't until they'd left that he took a closer look at the application. They had said there would be two people living in the unit. Now the manager saw the man would be joined by a child, not the woman. And he was employed by the Justice Department. _Ah, well, almost everyone around here works for the government in some capacity_. He watched them walking toward the parking lot. The man wasn't watching where he was going. He was looking at the sky and the tall, graceful trees that lined the driveway. He stumbled and his companion slipped a solicitous arm around his waist.

The manager smiled. There was something nice about this new tenant. He hoped he'd be happy at Rolling Hills. And he was sure the woman would be a frequent visitor.

"We have about an hour before we need to get Jack. What are you hungry for?" J.J. was thrilled with the way the day had gone. Hotch was happy. That was worth Derek's displeasure and the rest of the team's disapproval. Secretly, she thought any subterfuge or action that risked Hotch's health would be forgiven as soon as they saw their leader. He was excited and looking forward to something. Definitely _not_ suicidal.

Hotch looked thoughtful. "What do you think Morgan would like?" J.J. shook her head. In typical Hotch-fashion, he was letting himself feel guilty and was demonstrating his overly considerate nature by putting the wants of others before his own.

"I think Morgan would like to get his hands on you and either cuff you or implant a subcutaneous tracking device. Probably both."

"Then you can bring him his lunch. I don't wanna get too close. Do you feel like pizza?"

"Good choice. When you and Jack move here, you'll need to find the best pizza in the neighborhood. Might as well start looking now."

From a block-and-a-half away, Morgan watched his friends park and exit the car. Down the street, he found a place in front of them. He could see J.J.'s vehicle in his driver's side exterior mirror. All he had to do was sit and wait. He didn't think it was necessary to expand his field of vision, so he didn't notice when J.J. came out of Romeo's Pizza, carrying a slice on a napkin. When she tapped on the passenger side window, Morgan jumped high enough to feel the seat belt arrest his motion.

"Hi." She gave him a beatific smile and motioned for him to roll down the window. He did, looking a little sheepish. "Derek, I know you're not happy with this…"

"'Not happy' doesn't _begin_ to describe it, J.J. The man's not well. He needs rest and more time to heal. You _know_ that."

"What _I_ know is he needs something to look forward to." She narrowed her eyes and leaned in through the opening. "What good is it if his body's fine, when his whole spirit is fading away? Huh? Answer me that!"

Morgan swallowed. J.J. was almost never angry. When she was, you could bet she'd go down fighting for her cause. And the thought of a spiritless Hotch made him wonder if, once again, his good intentions were harming rather than helping his boss. Morgan sincerely hoped that wasn't true. J.J. read his change in mood and extended the pizza as a peace offering.

"Work with me, Derek." She raised her eyebrows. "Or come inside and eat with us. See how much better he is; how much happier."

Morgan searched her face and decided this might be an opportune moment to maneuver Hotch into agreeing to a thorough physical appraisal. He also wanted to see if they'd consider putting an end to this outing. For one thing, Hotch was now a dosage behind in his meds.

"Okay." He got out and joined J.J. on the sidewalk. She gave him the slice and tucked her arm through his, doing what she did best: acting as liaison.

When they entered the pizza parlor, Hotch was one-handedly transferring food and drinks from counter to table. His back was turned toward the door. Morgan disengaged himself from J.J. and, coming up behind him, took hold of both shoulders. Using extreme care with the injured one, Morgan turned him around. After a moment regarding each other, Morgan released his hold and motioned Hotch to sit down.

"I'll get the rest of the stuff." He finished picking up their order and slid into the seat opposite Hotch. He noticed the rental agreement lying on the table. Hotch kept glancing at it between bites, admiring the trophy of a successful day. Morgan had to admit, the man looked better. Still…

"Hotch, I'd like to take you home from here."

"Nope. I'm going with J.J. to pick up Jack."

Morgan leaned back and rubbed his chin with one hand, calculating which game pieces should be played in what order. "How about I take you home and, if you're feeling good tomorrow, _then_ you can go along to pick up Jack?"

"Nope."

"What if you go get Jack today and, in exchange, tonight when Reid's done with your ultra sound, you let me check you out head-to-toe?"

Hotch stopped eating and gave Morgan a suspicious glare. "How about I go get Jack and you move back to your own place tonight?"

"Not gonna happen, man." Morgan leaned in. "Try this: you go get Jack today; let me go over your body tonight and make sure you're healing on schedule, and then, tomorrow I help you start the packing and moving process _and_ drive you to pick up Jack?"

Hotch dug into his pocket, pulled out the keys J.J. had stolen back for him and dangled them from one finger. "I can drive myself."

Morgan did a creditable job of hiding his surprise, although his eyes did shift to J.J. for a brief, astonished moment. "Hotch, do you really want to risk driving with an injured shoulder that might slow your reaction time when your son's in the car?" Hotch pulled back a little. He might risk his own safety, but never Jack's. He got a little more serious about negotiations.

"Okay, Morgan. I can live with the last offer: I go with J.J. today. You can check out how I'm healing, if it means that much to you; tomorrow we get the wheels rolling on moving _and_ I don't drive, but I _do_ go along to get Jack. Deal?"

"Deal." The two agents shook hands across the table.

J.J. took a bite of pizza and shook her head. Tomorrow was Saturday. Jack didn't have school.


	42. Better Together

That evening at dinner, everyone noticed the difference in Hotch. He was more talkative, ate an acceptable amount, and when he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, he didn't look so haunted. A few times he even smiled for no reason at all.

Rossi observed the group as the meal progressed. It never ceased to amaze him that Hotch was unaware of how much the team was affected by his mood. It was part of his leadership ability; an innate power to…infuse…others with his determination and enthusiasm. The dark, flip side of that coin was that they also fell prey to his sadness and self-doubt. But it had been a good day. J.J. had defied the make-him-rest-and-get-well plan. She had been right, although Hotch did look a little tired. Rossi thought it might be a good idea to take things a bit slower. Lengthen the leash, but don't remove it just yet.

Morgan was backing off, which was good. Rossi estimated another two or three nights of supervision would let them know if Hotch's physical and emotional recovery would stick. He smiled; if Prentiss' wolf analogy held, then it could be time for Morgan to consider forming his own pack. He might want to reconsider the next time he was offered the opportunity to lead a new team. As much as Derek respected, trusted, and even loved Hotch, two upwardly mobile alphas created tension.

Overall, Rossi was pleased and proud of this bunch of characters. They all had quirks and weaknesses that would take a lifetime or more to sort out. But they were each special. Together, they were beautiful. He felt a fullness pooling in his eyes. Either he'd had too much wine and his Italian proclivity for emotion was asserting itself, or he just loved this team.

Didn't matter. It was all good.

Hotch was doing his own assessment. He was happy. He was hopeful for the future and grateful for the team that he now understood didn't disband once they left the workplace. He owed them a huge debt. He vowed to repay it in part by giving them the leader they deserved. He'd work at making himself stronger…better…in every way he could. He knew he'd need help along the way. But this time he knew where to find it. It was all around him, and for the first time he allowed himself to believe that he deserved these people…these _friends_…even in his flawed and injured state. He was a little tired, too. It had been an eventful day. When Morgan stood behind his chair and patted his shoulders, asking him if he was ready for his ultra sound, he went quietly.

Reid was pleased with the progress Hotch was making. The bruises were much less obvious. Only the darkest spots over the ribs and one that seemed to center on his left hipbone remained. The doctor also noticed that he could apply more pressure during the ultra sound without causing discomfort. And it was no longer necessary for Prentiss to relax Hotch before treatments. He was sturdier. He was healing. When Reid finished, Hotch groaned and sat up.

"You're not going to sleep?" He was used to the Unit Chief letting himself drift into a doze. The ultra sound usually signaled the end of his day.

"No. Morgan wants a crack at me."

"Okay. I'll send him in." Reid wasn't sure what 'a crack' entailed, but something told him it would best be accomplished without an audience.

Reid rejoined the group and told Morgan that Hotch was ready for him. Some inquisitive looks passed among the others. Only J.J. looked disinterested. She already knew the conditions of the deal the two agents had struck earlier.

"Just a spot check to make sure we aren't missing anything," Morgan said in response to some raised brows. He stood and rolled up his sleeves.

"Be careful." Rossi wanted the day to end without incident. "Remember he's not made of steel."

"Don't worry. I won't hurt him." Morgan sincerely hoped not anyway. He left the rest of the team to make plans for procuring packing materials and boxes. They were all planning on helping Hotch move. The sooner the better.

Morgan closed the door behind him and Hotch stood up. The unaccustomed activity of the day was wearing on him. He took a deep breath and tried to look vigorous. Or at least awake.

Morgan's hand lingered on the doorknob. "You sure you're up for this?"

"Deal's a deal. How do you wanna do it?"

Morgan moved within reach. "Honestly." Hotch looked for elaboration. "I want you to tell me if you're in pain, or uncomfortable, or if you want to stop. I don't want you hurt, got it?"

"I never thought you did, Morgan. It just…happens…sometimes." Hotch's grin was rueful.

"Hotch, I don't mean just _physical_ pain or discomfort." Morgan's touch was gentle and compassionate as he placed the fingers of one hand against his friends' chest. "I mean the hurt in there, too."

Hotch looked down. His throat tightened and his voice was a little scratchy when he replied. "I understand."

"Okay." Morgan looked his boss up and down. "Arms...or arm, anyway at your side. Let me see you walk normally, across the room and back. Don't try to compensate for anything; just walk like no one's watching."

Hotch did as requested. Morgan's eyes, trained to spot weakness in an adversary as well as injury in a colleague, noted something less than well-integrated in his stride. He didn't think it was the rib injury or the dislocated shoulder. But it was still something in his much beleaguered left side. Hotch ended standing before him.

"Now what?"

Morgan thought for a moment. He stepped to Hotch's side and placed a hand just below and to the left of the small of his back. He put his other hand low on the front of Hotch's left hip. "Raise your left leg until your thigh is parallel to the floor." Hotch's balance wavered, but he complied. "Do that a couple more times."

After a few repetitions, Morgan pulled back. "Did you ever get…hurt…in your left SI joint?" Hotch looked unsure. Morgan reached around and again placed his hand on the lower left quadrant of his back. "Here. The sacroiliac joint."

Hotch's eyes assumed an all too familiar guarded look. Morgan could see the wheels turning. "Hotch, I probably already know." Morgan spoke as he would to a feral dog, trying to coax it into accepting it was safe.

Hotch turned away, went to his bed and sat on the edge. He still kept his posture rigid to accommodate the rib and shoulder injuries, but Morgan could tell he wanted to slump over.

"Yeah."

Morgan sat beside him. "Your…dad?"

"Yeah." Hotch took a deep breath. He decided to give Morgan the honesty he'd asked for. "He hit me with a baseball bat."

"Ah, Hotch."

"It didn't break anything. Just put me in the hospital for x-rays and stuff 'cause I couldn't walk for a while." Hotch was studying his hands. His voice was distant. "He told everyone I fell off my bike. I fell off my bike a lot."

Morgan placed a careful hand on his friend's back. "And it still hurts?"

Hotch jerked himself back from his past. "Uh, no. Not usually. I fell down some stairs during the… Foyet thing. It must've irritated it, that's all."

It was Morgan's turn to sigh. He rubbed the back of Hotch's neck. "You know what I'd do to those two sons of bitches if they were here, right?" Hotch looked at him. Morgan raised his eyebrows at his boss' sling. "I mean…look what I've done to you without even trying." Hotch burst into laughter.

After a minute, Morgan stood up. "I'm gonna get some ice for your shoulder and maybe a couple other places. Lie down. When I get back I wanna check out your knees, hips and spine. And then we'll be done. Unless you wanna tell me anything else?"

"No. I'm good." He started to slip off the sling as Morgan went to the door.

"Morgan?"

"Yeah?"

"You think I'm okay?"

Morgan smiled. "Hotch, I think you're the best."


	43. The End

It was amazing what six people could do. Hotch signed the lease for the townhouse at Rolling Hills on a Friday. By the following Tuesday, he and Jack were home. And not just moved in, but completely settled.

Garcia had sliced through red tape and automated customer service systems to make sure Hotch's utilities were appropriately ended at his old address and started at the new one. Prentiss and J.J. had taken him for one exhausting day to buy every pot, pan and piece of furniture he needed…and several that he wouldn't have thought of, but they assured him were necessary. Reid, Morgan and Rossi had provided the muscle to make the actual transition.

J.J. had hated the packed boxes that lined the walls of his old apartment, so she spearheaded the marathon of unpacking and putting things away. It meant that Hotch would be searching for items during the first few weeks, but if he really got stuck, he could always call her and ask questions like 'Where would you be if you were a….'

Gradually, life returned to normal for the rest of the team. And if Hotch was sometimes sad or quiet, it was only the normal reaction to the horrors that had entered his life in such quick succession over the last few months. He accepted comfort when it was given. It was still hard for him to ask for it, but Rossi somehow knew when it would be a good idea to drop by and talk to his pretend-son. Once in a great while, he'd pick up the phone and hear 'I need you, Dave.' Those were the most gratifying moments for him. He tried hard to make Aaron understand that if he was brave enough to do his job with the FBI, then he was brave enough to believe he was worthy of love and friendship and belonging.

It would be a lifelong journey to repair the damage Hotch's father had done. He would always carry scars, but he was beginning to understand that at the very least, his love for Jack was something he could trust. Hotch would never become a monster to his son.

Three weeks after moving, Hotch decided it was time for an official townhouse-warming. It would be an opportunity for him to thank the team for taking care of him when he needed it so badly, but didn't know how to ask for it. It would also herald his own return to work. He would still be confined to a desk for another week, but Rossi had no doubt they would find a stowaway on board the next time they went wheels up. Hotch would return to the BAU on Monday. He planned the get-together for the evening of the Saturday before.

Indian summer was kind to Virginia that year. Hotch was confident when he set up the barbecue in his backyard. Garcia, the maven of all things culinary, had volunteered to come early and help him prepare. She also surprised him by bringing the most sinfully chocolate cake he'd ever tasted.

Hotch had specified that there were to be no house-warming gifts. J.J. ignored him and arrived with a large hard-to-kill, exceptionally bachelor-proof, Victorian parlor palm. He had to admit, it went well in the entryway and added one of those homey touches that he lacked the talent to achieve.

One by one the others straggled in. When the sun began to set and the acreage beyond Hotch's small fence was bathed in shades of lavender, the gathering was in full swing. Soft music reflected the host's taste: classical and elegant. It was slightly at odds with the atmosphere of casual play. Morgan and Reid spilled over into the twilit fields to try to teach Jack how to throw a Frisbee. It became apparent that Reid could use a few pointers, too. Hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, wine and beer joined Garcia's cake to round out a menu that fit the location and circumstances. Hotch watched his team relax and felt…a lot. As usual, Rossi seemed to possess a radar that could detect turbulence in his friend's soul; even when it was of the pleasant variety. He went to where the Unit Chief stood, paper cup of wine in hand, and draped an arm over his shoulders, hugging him closer.

"You did it, Aaron." An inquisitive look was the only response. "You survived. Again."

"I almost didn't." It was Rossi's turn to raise a questioning brow. "I'm not saying I would've done myself harm, like you guys were afraid I would…but I didn't see the point in, well, anything. I just didn't care what happened to me. Reid says I don't seek pain, but I let it have me when it comes. I was ready to let it have me in a really final way…if it wanted me."

Rossi moved his hand to the shallow space between Hotch's shoulder blades and rubbed a message of comfort. "You would've left Jack without a fight?"

"If that's what fate, or whatever it is that decides how things go, wanted." Hotch looked at Rossi and gave him a lopsided smile. "Besides, I knew you'd look after him, if I was gone."

Rossi nodded. He thought it best not to speak past the lump in his throat.

Hotch resumed watching the others. "Dave, what's the Italian word for 'grandfather?'"

"_Nonno_. Sometimes _nonnuccio_ or _nonnino_. But I always called mine…_poppi_. Go figure, right?"

"Would you mind if Jack called you _Poppi_?"

Hotch knew that the silence that followed was because Rossi needed a moment before he could speak. "I can think of few things that would please me more."

"Thank you." There was a smile in Hotch's voice.

"_Te amo_, Aaron." Rossi gave him another one-armed hug and planted a loud, Italian kiss on his cheek. He patted him once more on the back and walked away, letting the evening breeze dry the moisture in his eyes.

Morgan watched Rossi leave and thought the time was opportune for him to seek one last bit of reassurance that his leader was ready to return to work. He went to Hotch and stood before him, looking him up and down.

"You look better than you have in a long time, man."

"But…?"

Morgan grinned, raised one hand and looked pointedly at Hotch's midriff. "Do you mind? One last check?"

Hotch returned the grin, set his wine cup down, and held his arms straight out to the side. "Be my guest."

Morgan stepped closer, expression changing to one of thoughtful concentration. He ran a slow, gentle hand down Hotch's left side from underarm to just below the hip. When there was no reaction, he increased the pressure. Still nothing. He looked to Hotch for permission. When Hotch nodded, Morgan wrapped his hand around the ribcage at the point where he knew the worst of the injury would linger for the rest of his boss' life. He applied a gradual squeeze until Hotch gave a small grunt of pain. Morgan released his grip, running his hand up and down as though he'd erase the pain and its memory.

"That's not bad, Hotch. You know I've got your back. I'll try to have your side, too." He turned his attention elsewhere. "Shoulder?"

"Go ahead." Hotch dropped his arms.

Morgan stepped behind him, placed one hand flat against his left shoulder blade, the other reached around the front and spread across his left collarbone and shoulder joint. "Move slow, Hotch. Raise your arm…reach back…forward…relax and let me move you. Don't help."

After a few minutes of slow manipulation, Morgan let go. He picked up Hotch's cup of wine and returned it to him.

"Wouldn't hurt to gain a few more pounds, but you're good to go, boss."

"Nice to know. I've been out so long, I can't afford to be anything less when I get back."

Morgan grinned. "Well, at least you won't have to worry about Strauss for a while."

Hotch's reaction was immediate. His head snapped around to give Morgan a sharp look. "Why's that?"

Morgan bit his lip, closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. _Damn. I figured Garcia'd be the one to slip up_. "It's nothing, man. Don't worry, okay?"

"If Strauss is involved, it's not 'nothing!'" Hotch looked stressed for the first time that evening. "Morgan, I have to know if I'm walking into something. Please!"

It only took a moment for Morgan to realize his boss would endure incessant worry if he didn't clue him in on the Prentiss-led caper to defend him, which had led to Rossi's handling the situation in a beautifully definitive way. So he did.

Hotch was riveted. "So Prentiss would have kept this whole thing under wraps if Rossi hadn't figured it out?"

Morgan shrugged. "Guess so." He glanced at Hotch who was scanning the landscape until he located Prentiss. "Don't be mad at her, man. She only did what the rest of us would have, if we'd known what was happening."

Hotch's eyes were fixed on the female wild card of the team. "I'm not mad." He sounded preoccupied. "Thanks, Morgan….Excuse me." He walked away, depositing his half-full cup on a table as he passed.

Prentiss was standing alone, arms crossed, enjoying the pastoral scene stretching away from Hotch's backyard. The sun had set. The stars were brighter than she'd seen in a long time. She lived where city-glow reduced them to one or two bright spots fighting to be seen through a gray haze. _This is nice_, she thought. _This is a place where he can recharge after each case; where he can raise Jack in a way Haley would've liked_.

She almost didn't notice when someone came to stand beside her. A sense of body warmth clued her in. She looked at Hotch. He was watching her with an expression she'd rarely seen; and one that had never been directed her way. There was no scowl. His eyes were open and defenseless. There was something…bashful…about him.

"What?" She smiled her inability to read the situation.

Hotch took a step closer, putting his arm around her shoulders. He bent his neck and rested his forehead against her hair.

"What?" She was becoming a little concerned.

He gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze. "Nothing. But, Prentiss?...consider yourself nuzzled."

Everyone was gone. They'd helped with the clean-up despite Hotch's admonitions to leave it all for him. Jack was asleep. The night was fine and warm. Hotch left his yard and walked a short distance into the meadow and the night. He watched the stars. He closed his eyes and let the breeze touch him.

_We're home, Hayley. I'm doing my best, but I still need help. Especially with Jack. I don't really know how to do this. So…when I'm lost, please find me. When I don't know what to do, please point me in the right direction. But most of all, please, please watch over our son. If you help me, we can still do this together_. Hotch bowed his head. _I love you. I never stopped_.

He didn't expect an answer.

Nothing momentous happened.

But the breeze…changed. It carried a gentle, uncommon warmth. Even for this mild night. And there was a sweetness to it, like honeyed pollen drifting on a summer wind. Hotch breathed deeply of it. His chest loosened and something peaceful entered in place of the usual tension.

_Thank you, Hayley_.

Aaron Hotchner was finally, truly home.


End file.
